GIFT  OF 


•  J> 
t~  / 1 


THE 
POEMS 

OF 
TRUMBULL    STICKNEY 


THE   POEMS 

OF 

TRUMBULL 
STICKNET 


BOSTON  AND  NSW  YOflK 

HOTJGHTON,  MIFFLIN&  CO. 

MDCCCCV 


COPYRIGHT    1905   BY   L.   M.   STICKNEY 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  November  iqo$ 


PREFATORY   NOTE 


fa  ft  ft  J 


STICKNEY  sat'd  to  ws,  just  before  he  died,  "Here  are 
my  manuscripts  ,  i/cm  will  do  as  you  please  with  them." 
We  were,  he  explained,  with  no  further  word  of  advice 
or  guidance,  to  use  only  our  own  judgment  :  free  to  pub 
lish  or  suppress,  in  whole  or  in  part,  exactly  as  seemed 
best  to  us.  Therefore  it  happens  that,  in  all  particu 
lars  of  selection  and  editing,  we  are  responsible  for  this 
present  volume,  which,  in  our  intention,  offers  to  the 
public,  in  definitive  form,  all  of  STICKNEY'S  work 
that  is  for  any  reason  valuable. 

GEORGE  CABOT  LODGE 
WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY 
JOHN  ELLEBTON  LODGE 


250261 


A    TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTE  xiii 
I.    DRAMATIC  VERSES 

KALYPSO  3 

ONCE  8 

IN  THE   PAST  9 

ONEIROPOLOS  11 

LUCRETIUS  17 

AGE  IN  YOUTH  19 

IN  SUMMER  22 

IN  AMPEZZO  25 

MNEMOSYNE  29 

LODOVICO   MARTELLI  31 

DOLOROSA  38 

PITY  39 

SONG  40 

RALSTON  41 

DRIFTWOOD  44 

REQUIESCAM  46 

ERIDE  49 
SONNETS 

*  YOU  SAY,   COLUMBUS  WITH  HIS  ARGOSIES  '      79 
'THEY     SAY     THAT     CLEOPATRA     WHO      OF 

YORE  '  80 
'THEY   LIVE   ENAMOURED   OF   THE    LOVELY 

MOON '  81 


[viii] 

ON  RODIN'S  "L'ILLUSION,  SCEUR  D'ICARE"    82 
'MY  FRIEND,  WHO   IN   THIS   MARCH    UN 
KIND,  UNCOUTH'  83 
'YOUR     IMAGE     WALKS     NOT    IN    MY    COM 
MON  WAY'  84 
'WERE  YOU  CALLED  HOME  AND   i  WERE 

LEFT  TO  GRIEF'  85 

IN  A  CHURCHYARD  86 

'WHEN    i    HEREAFTER    SHALL    RECOVER 

THEE  '  87 

*THO'  INLAND  FAR  WITH  MOUNTAINS 

PRISONED  ROUND'  88 

ON  SOME  SHELLS  FOUND  INLAND  89 

'  THO'  LACK  OF  LAURELS  AND  OF  WREATHS 

NOT  ONE'  90 

'  LIVE  BLINDLY  AND  UPON  THE  HOUR.  THE 

LORD  '  91 

'  BE  STILL.   THE  HANGING  GARDENS  WERE 

A  DREAM'  92 

ON  THE  CONCERT  93 

'  THE  MELANCHOLY  YEAR  IS  DEAD  WITH 

RAIN '  94 
'  AS    A    SAD  MAN,  WHEN   EVENINGS  GRAYER 

GROW '  95 

'  HE  SAID  I  "  IF  IN  HIS  IMAGE  I  WAS  MADE  "  96 

LAKEWARD  97 

PROMETHEUS   PYRPHOROS  103 

II.    FRAGMENTS    OF    A   DRAMA   ON  THE 

LIFE    OF   THE    EMPEROR    JULIAN  133 


[ix] 

III.    LATER    LYRICS 

'  LISTEN!   AS  THOUGH  FROM  OTHER  TIMES  AND 

DAYS '  165 

'I  SAW  HOW  THAT   A    PAINTER,    GIVEN   O*ER '  166 

*  WITH   LONG  BLACK  WINGS  AN  ANGEL  STAND 

ING  BY*  167 

*  YOU  ARE  TO  ME  THE  FULL  VERMILION  ROSE  '  168 
'THE  TREES  AND  SHRUBBERY  GLIMMER*  169 
'A  GLAD  LITTLE  RIFT,  SO  SHY*  170 

171 
173 
'  AND,  THE  LAST  DAY  BEING  COME,  MAN  STOOD 

ALONE '  175 

DEDICATION  176 

A    FLOWER  177 

A   STONE  178 

PARDON  179 

SERVICE  180 

CHESTNUTS   IN   NOVEMBER  181 

FIDELITY  183 

'  WITH  THY  TWO  EYES  LOOK  ON  ME  ONCE  AGAIN '  184 

*  WHEN  BYE    AND    BYE    RELENTING    YOU     RE 

GRET  '  185 

LONELINESS  186 
'AS  PILGRIMS,  WHEN  THE  WAYS  OF  WINTER 

OPE '  187 

'QUIET  AFTER  THE  RAIN  OF  MORNING'  188 

'IF  THO'  ALONE  I  SCARCE  DO  SIGH*  189 

'GRUDGE  NOT  THAT  i  so  LONG  FOR  THEE'  190 


[x] 

*  SPIRITS  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN  '  192 

SEPARATION  193 

AT  SAINTE-MARGUERITE  194 

'l  DREAMED.    AYE,  IT  WAS  VERY  DARK*  197 

'LEAVE  HIM  NOW  QUIET  BY  THE  WAY'  198 

AN  ATHENIAN  GARDEN  199 
SONNETS  FROM  GREECE 

SUNIUM  201 

MT.    LYKAION  202 

NEAR   HELIKON  203 

ELEUSIS  204 

MT.    IDA  205 

six  O'CLOCK  208 

IN  A   CITY   GARDEN  209 

IV.     A   DRAMATIC    SCENE  213 
V.    JUVENILIA 

ART  IN   MAN  239 

MUSIC  240 

NIGHT  241 

EVENING  242 

AGE   AND   YOUTH  245 
'THIS      IS    THE     NURSLING     OF   AN    HUNDRED 

YEARS '  247 
*THO',     MOORED     ALONG     THE     QUIET     QUAY 

ON   SOME*  248 

THE  DEATH  OF  AISCHYLOS  249 

*MY  NOTE  IS  HIGHEST  OF  THEM  ALL*  255 
'WHEN  YOU'VE  AVERAGED  EMOTION,  FOUND 

WHERE   NATURE   GOES   TO   SCHOOL*  256 


[xi] 

ODE  258 

*  'T  WAS  YET  AN  HOUR  TO  DAWN.   REVENGE 
FUL  STORM*  262 
COLOGNE  CATHEDRAL  263 
'WHEN   BY  YOU  LIES  MY   BROKEN   HEART, 

AND  l'  264 

'NOW  THE  LOVELY  MOON  IS  WILTED*  265 

'l  KNOW  WHERE  ALL  THE  SINGERS  HIDE*  267 
'  HOLD  STILL,  MY  BRAIN!  MY  TEMPLES  BURST! 

SHALL  E'ER*  268 

NIMIUM  PASSUS  270 
'  SPRING  IS  COME.  FROM  THE  WIND  LIGHTLY 

DISSIPATE    FEATHERS    OF     MIST    THAT    AN 

UPLAND  EXHALES*  271 

IN  AMPEZZO  272 
'IF  IN  THE  NIGHT  AND  MADNESS  OF  THY 

MIND '  275 

'HENCEFORWARD  i  NO    LONGER   SHALL   BE 

KNOWN '  276 

A  LETTER  277 

*MY  LIFE  SHALL  COUNT  BY  THE  SMILE  AND 

TEAR '  279 

'YOU'LL  SAY  WHEN  HERE  AGAIN  AFTER  IT 

ALL '  280 

'THIS   IS  THE  VIOLIN.     IF  YOU  REMEMBER  —  *        281 

VI.    FRAGMENTS 

'THE   AUTUMN'S   DONE;    THEY    HAVE    THE 

GOLDEN  CORN  IN*  287 

*SHE  SAT  UNDER  THE  NAKED  BOUGH*  289 


[xii] 

FRAGMENT   OF   AN   ODE   FOB  GREEK   LIBERTY        291 

'MY  LUDOVICO,  IT  is  SAD!'  294 

'  THE  WEAKENED  EYES    REGAIN  THEIR  SIGHT '        295 

'AND  i  STOOD  RINGED  ABOUT  WITH  MARBLE 

DREAMS '  295 

"TIS  SAID  THAT  HEARTS  ARE  WON,  AT 

LENGTH!'  296 

*WE  LEARN  BY  SUFFERING  AND  WE  TEACH 

BY  PITY'  296 

'l  HEAR  A  RIVER  THRO*  THE  VALLEY  WAN 
DER5  296 

'  NAY,  TAKE  IT  ALL  IN  ALL,  THE  HUMAN  SORT '         297 

'  THE  PASSIONS  THAT  WE  FOUGHT  WITH  AND 

SUBDUED '  297 

'  AS  ONE  WHO  LOVING  BEYOND  WORDS  WILL 

BRING '  •  297 

'  TEASED  BY  THE  BURDEN  OF  THIS  LITTLE  SKY  '  298 
'  IF  WITH  MY  LIFE  I  LIFTED  FROM  THY  HEAD '  298 
'THE  IMMORTAL  MIXES  WITH  MORTALITY'  298 
FRAGMENT  OF  A  DRAMA  CALLED  "  THE  CAR 
DINAL  PLAY"  300 


BLINDNESS  AND  DEAFNESS  310 

THE   SOUL   OF   TIME  310 

'BE     PATIENT,    VERY    PATIENT;  FOR     THE 

SKIES '  311 

'SIR,    SAY   NO   MORE*  312 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 


£ 

^ 


JOSEPH  TRUMBULL  STICKNEY  was  born  on  the  twen 
tieth  day  of  June,  1874,  at  Geneva,  Switzerland.  His 
parents  were  both  of  long-established  New  England 
family.  He  was  the  third  of  four  children,  two  older 
sisters  and  a  younger  brother.  For  the  first  five  years 
of  STICKNEY'S  life  the  family  passed  their  winters  in 
Florence,  their  autumns  on  the  Italian  lakes,  and  their 
summers  in  Switzerland;  and  even  though  in  1879  they 
returned  to  New  York,  bought  a  house  there,  and 
there,  for  a  matter  of  fifteen  years  or  more,  were 
pretty  regularly  established,  nevertheless  during  this 
time  many  of  their  summers  and  winters  were  spent 
in  Europe.  In  the  autumn  of  1891,  at  the  age  of 
seventeen,  STICKNEY  entered  Harvard  University. 
He  was  graduated  with  high  classical  honours  in  the 
early  summer  of  1895  and  immediately  departed  to 
join  his  family  in  Europe,  where,  as  it  turned  out,  he 
was  to  remain  continuously  until  the  autumn  of  1903. 
Throughout  these  eight  years  STICKNEY  passed  his 
winters,  without  exception,  and  most  of  his  summers, 
save  for  occasional  vacations  to  the  sea,  to  the  country, 
to  Italy,  steadily  in  Paris,  there  pursuing  the  imme 
diate  official  object  of  his  life,  the  Doctorat  es  Lettres, 
—  the  highest  degree  in  the  gift  of  the  great  French 
University.  In  the  autumn  of  1902,  his  volume  of 


[xvi] 

poems,  "  Dramatic  Verses,"  was  published ;  and,  in 
the  winter  of  1903,  the  University  of  Paris  gave  him 
its  great  degree  — never  before  conferred  on  an  Ameri 
can  —  in  exchange  for  his  two  theses,  printed  the 
same  year,  "Les  Sentences  dans  la  Poesie  Grecque 
d'Homere  a  Euripide,"  and  "De  Hermolai  Barbari 
vita  atque  ingenio  dissertationem."  In  April,  1903, 
he  left  Paris  to  spend  three  months  in  Greece.  On 
his  return  from  Greece,  he  broke  up  his  establishment 
in  Paris,  and,  in  the  autumn  of  1903,  came  to  America, 
where  a  place  as  instructor  of  Greek  at  Harvard  already 
awaited  him. 

He  performed  the  duties  of  this  position  uninter 
ruptedly  until  his  death,  caused  by  tumour  on  the 
brain.  He  died  in  Boston  on  October  11, 1904,  hardly 
more  than  thirty  years  of  age. 


POEMS 


NOTE 

IN  order  to  provide  a  clear  and  comprehensive  view  of 
STICKNEY'S  poetic  work,  taken  in  its  connection  with  his 
life,  this  volume  has  been  divided  into  several  sections. 
STICKNEY'S  poems,  indeed,  seem  to  fall  so  naturally  together 
into  certain  well-defined  groups,  that  the  present  arrange 
ment  appears  almost  to  have  imposed  itself  upon  the 
editors. 


I 

DRAMATIC    VERSES 


[THIS  first  section  comprises,  in  its  entirety,  the  volume 
of  poems  entitled  "  Dramatic  Verses  "  (Charles  E.  Good- 
speed,  Boston,  October,  1902),  which  was  published  under 
STICKNEY'S  supervision  during  his  lifetime.  It  is  here  re 
printed  in  exactly  the  order  of  its  first  publication,  as  it  has 
been  thought  best  to  preserve,  in  this  section,  the  grouping 
and  arrangement  which  were  STICKNEY'S  own. 

It  is  not  possible  accurately  to  date  all  the  poems  in  this 
section.  None,  however,  were  written  earlier  than  1894,  in 
which  year  STICKNEY  was  nineteen  and  twenty  years  of  age. 
Throughout  the  section  a  date  has  been  ascribed,  when 
possible,  to  each  poem.] 


My  dear  Bay : 

This  is  for  Bessie  and  you,  if  you  will  find  room  for  it 
among  better  things. 

Paris,  1902. 


[3] 


KALYPSO 

THEN  sang  Kalypso  yet  another  song. 

And  it  was  waxen  late.    Beyond  her  isle, 

Beyond  the  sea  and  world  hung  drearily 

A  full  moon.    Quiet  was,  except  the  wind 

Lifting  the  water's  murmur  as  a  girl 

May  lift  the  fold  of  some  sad  Eastern  silk. 

One  cloud,  a  presage,  loitered.    All  the  air 

Was  marvellous  and  sorrowful,  as  of 

Jasmine  sea-touched  and  roses  pale  with  spray, 

Of  fading  oleander,  clematis 

Grown  weary  on  the  garden  wall.    Anon 

The  cold  salt  wind  did  rise  and  scatter  all 

Odours:   a  little  chill,  then  quietude. 

So  here  did  mix  the  land's  breath  and  the  sea's. 

And  still  she  paused.    Her  solemn  lips,  possessed 
By  that  shy  thought  that  comes  before  a  song, 
Were  silent.    And  he  raised  his  languid  arm. 
Clasping  it  all  she  turned  on  him  then 
The  earnest  heaven  of  her  desirous  eyes; 
Drew  him  about  her  feet,  against  her  knees, 
Closer;   and  rested  in  his  hair  one  hand. 
The  other  alone,  moving  so  musical 
That  her  low  notes  were  not  more  song  than  it, 
Described  the  region  of  the  sinking  moon, 
While  soft  and  even  a  most  unhappy  strain, 


[4] 

The  modulation  of  an  endless  grief, 
Flowed  from  her  lips.    And  tiredly  she  sang: 

"She  says:  'Follow  my  steps  and  take  my  hand 
To  where  the  shoreward  sea  falls  colourless 
And  light  is  growing  less,  grows  ever  less 
Yet  quencheth  never;   where  the  seas  expand 
And  shrink,  where  nothing  altereth.    I  stand 
Upon  that  melancholy  marge  of  sand. 

"The  Earth  was  made;  yet  then  was  I  alone, 
Walking  this  skyey  meadow's  nodding  gold. 
I've  seen  her  freshest  garden  turned  old 
And  men  grow  mortal  in  her  beds  of  stone. 
But  I  am  still  alone,  and  near  the  sun 
Sometimes  I  think  my  heart  is  waxen  cold 
For  having  been  so  very  long  alone.' " 

Her  voice  was  richer  with  the  widening  song. 
Light  came  and  went,  colour  reposed  and  fled 
About  her  face.    There  in  the  swarty  night 
She  shone  like  opal,  flickering  weird  flame 
And  crossed  with  splendour.    On  his  neck  her  hand 
Quivered;  he  felt  her  blood  throb;  languidly 
Thro'  closing  eyelids  of  the  soul  he  saw 
The  world  dissolve  in  rosiness.    She  sang: 

" '  Come !  so  long  have  I  looked  on  thee,  so  long 
That  my  gold  lids  are  heavy  with  desire; 


[5] 

My  arms  for  waiting  here  in  heaven  tire; 
My  throat  is  tuneless  with  unceased  song. 
Where  nothing  is  and  day  and  night  prolong 
Each  other  in  the  sober  twilight  fire, 
Give  me  thy  soul  for  having  looked  so  long. 

" '  I  go  below.    Follow  thou  in  my  trace 
And  taste  my  solitude.    There  all  the  air 
Becomes  a  lover  feeling  love  so  rare. 
The  chilly  wave  walks  nearer  yet  to  share 
The  rhythm  and  ecstasy  of  our  embrace, 
And  evening  jealous  of  our  flushed  face 
Goes  out  in  sad  retire  and  pale  despair. 

"  *  And  while  upon  that  solitary  sand 
The  ripples  burn  away  their  fringe  of  light 
And  after  me  drawn  down  the  heavenly  night 
Unnumbered  stars  fall  throbbing  to  the  land, 
Let  all  the  glamour  of  my  courses  waned 
Possess  thy  soul  in  lingering  delight,  — 
Let  me  in  darkness  feel  thy  failing  hand.' " 

Over  his  head  she  stooped.    Her  odorous  hair 

Fell  thickly  o'er  his  face.    She  kissed  him 

With  all  the  sleepy  honeys  of  her  soul. 

Her  arms  did  slip  along  his  neck,  his  breast; 

She  kissed  him  lazily  upon  the  lids 

And  languorously  on  the  brow,  she  kissed  him 

Trembling  and  fiery  on  the  opened  mouth. 


[6] 

And  slowly  — 

Wind  rose.    Rustles  crept  to  's  ear. 
Thro*  meshes  of  her  hair  he  saw  gray-blown 
The  thick  tumultuous  cloud  blotted  and  streaked 
With  witchery  of  dead  moon.    The  midnight  whirred. 
Sparsely  the  windy  stars  and  feebly  hung. 
A  little  withered  leaf  blew  by;  it  scratched 
Him  with  its  frittered  edge.    For  it  was  autumn. 
Autumn  it  was.    Then  did  he  know.    No  more 
That  year  would  he  return,  that  year  no  more; 
Rather,  locked  by  the  vastly  circular 
Walls  o'  the  sea,  the  quashing  roof  of  heaven, 
Still  suffocated  in  the  changeless  air, 
Still  vexed  by  incessant  memory  and  recall, 
Would  stand  in  pain  desirous  of  that  dear 
Fireside  and  her  more  dear  and  beautiful  — 
O  curse  to  exile!   Horrid  ire  shook  him. 
He  started  from  her  embrace,  muttered,  struggled,  — 
Then  sudden  came  into  dominion 
Of  his  great  self.    He  stood  and  said  to  her, 

"Thou  art  more  masterful  than  death.    The  life 

/ 

That  spurred  me  thro'  the  waters  of  the  world 
Was  spent  indeed,  —  and  claimed  again,  O  love, 
Upon  thy  soul's  warm  shore."    And  amorously,  she 

thought, 

He  neared  her,  lifted  her.    They  drew  toward 
Her  dwelling.    To  herself  she  seemed  queen 
Over  his  love,  and  on  the  forward  heaven 
Of  her  retreating  hope  she  lit  the  stars 


[7] 

Of  happy  hours,  of  happy  days,  —  the  crown 
Of  long  desire;   and  drank  of  his  embrace 
A  dear  oblivion  of  sad  doubt:  the  while 
He  plotted  to  beguile  this  woman  here, 
Gaoler  of  Fate,  to  drug  her  love  asleep, 
That  ere  his  death  tho'  waxen  old  he'd  see 
Were 't  but  the  smoke  of  tree-clad  Ithaca. 

[1896] 


[8] 
ONCE 

THAT  day  her  eyes  were  deep  as  night. 

She  had  the  motion  of  the  rose, 

The  bird  that  veers  across  the  light, 

The  waterfall  that  leaps  and  throws 

Its  irised  spindrift  to  the  sun. 

She  seemed  a  wind  of  music  passing  on. 

Alone  I  saw  her  that  one  day 

'Stand  in  the  window  of  my  life. 

Her  sudden  hand  melted  away 

Under  my  lips,  and  without  strife 

I  held  her  in  my  arms  awhile 

And  drew  into  my  lips  her  living  smile,  — 

Now  many  a  day  ago  and  year! 

Since  when  I  dream  and  lie  awake 

In  summer  nights  to  feel  her  near, 

And  from  the  heavy  darkness  break 

Glitters,  till  all  my  spirit  swims 

And  her  hand  hovers  on  my  shaking  limbs, 

If  once  again  before  I  die 

I  drank  the  laughter  of  her  mouth 

And  quenched  my  fever  utterly, 

I  say,  and  should  it  cost  my  youth, 

'T  were  well !   for  I  no  more  should  wait 

Hammering  midnight  on  the  doors  of  fate. 

[1902] 


[9] 
IN    THE    PAST 

THERE  lies  a  somnolent  lake 
Under  a  noiseless  sky, 
Where  never  the  mornings  break 
Nor  the  evenings  die. 

Mad  flakes  of  colour 

Whirl  on  its  even  face 

Iridescent  and  streaked  with  pallour; 

And,  warding  the  silent  place, 

The  rocks  rise  sheer  and  gray 
From  the  sedgeless  brink  to  the  sky 
Dull-lit  with  the  light  of  pale  half -day 
Thro'  a  void  space  and  dry. 

And  the  hours  lag  dead  in  the  air 
With  a  sense  of  coming  eternity 
To  the  heart  of  the  lonely  boatman  there; 
That  boatman  am  I, 

I,  in  my  lonely  boat, 
A  waif  on  the  somnolent  lake, 
Watching  the  colours  creep  and  float 
With  the  sinuous  track  of  a  snake. 

Now  I  lean  o'er  the  side 
And  lazy  shades  in  the  water  see, 
Lapped  in  the  sweep  of  a  sluggish  tide 
Crawled  in  from  the  living  sea; 


[10] 

And  next  I  fix  mine  eyes, 

So  long  that  the  heart  declines, 

On  the  changeless  face  of  the  open  skies 

Where  no  star  shines; 

And  now  to  the  rocks  I  turn, 
To  the  rocks,  around 
That  lie  like  walls  of  a  circling  urn 
Wherein  lie  bound 

The  waters  that  feel  my  powerless  strength 
And  meet  my  homeless  oar 
Labouring  over  their  ashen  length 
Never  to  find  a  shore. 

But  the  gleam  still  skims 
At  times  on  the  somnolent  lake, 
And  a  light  there  is  that  swims 
With  the  whirl  of  a  snake; 

And  tho'  dead  be  the  hours  i'  the  air, 
And  dayless  the  sky, 
The  heart  is  alive  of  the  boatman  there: 
That  boatman  am  I. 


[11] 

ONEIROPOLOS 

COME,  Sakhi.    Here  within  this  edge  of  shade 
We'll  stand  against  the  house-wall  shadow-cooled. 
There's  no  one  left  at  noon  in  the  Agora 
To  quib  their  fortune  of  my  dozen  birds. 
The  town  —  the  world,  these  poor  Athenians  think 
Goes  home  and  half  asleep.    Their  prattling  stops. 
And  burned  by  sunlight  thro'  the  stifling  hours, 
Temple  and  house,  statue  and  wall  and  road 
Glow  as  hot  copper. 

But  here  shadow  dwells; 
And  here  by  the  sun-stricken  afternoon 
I  stand  leaning  my  head,  and  close  my  eyes. 
A  red  light  swims  my  brain  awhile,  then  goes; 
And  unto  memory  I  surrender  me 
Of  all  my  master  Brihadashua  said, 
My  blessed  master  pure  and  charitable 
Who  dwelt  in  Kashi  by  the  holy  stream. 
Happy  indeed  was  I,  happy  to  count 
A  wizard  in  my  kindred  such  as  he, 
Whose  lips  were  wholly  dedicate  to  truth, 
Whose  hand  dispensed  serene  and  wonderful 
Peace  to  the  spirit  as  a  tree  his  shade. 
To  him,  as  one  who  rushes  head  aflame, 
Kindled  and  dry  with  fever,  toward  shore, 
I  went;   and  most  divinely  pitiful 
He  taught  me  wisdom.    To  his  voice  I  turned 
As  turns  a  lotus  to  the  rosy  dawn, 


[12] 

Filling  with  light,  gathering  treasure  thence 

To  keep  within  its  heart  all  the  day  long. 

Sometime  he  spake,  and  all  were  blest;   sometime 

Silent  we  sat  within  the  pale  and  help 

Of  all  his  thought.    Continually  did  fall 

The  pleasant  dew  of  patience  from  his  eye, 

Which  looking  ever  beyond  world  and  star 

Was  large  as  upper  heaven.    They  were  the  days 

When  I  had  laid  the  world  to  rest  within  me 

And,  tho'  with  childish  lips,  did  after  him 

Say  as  in  dream  the  holy  syllables. 

He  died,  —  rather,  I  heard  him  never  more. 

His  final  earthly  errand,  whilst  his  mind, 

Quitting  our  vain  and  pitiable  scene, 

Dissolved,  he  gave  me  in  trust.    I  quit  the  shore 

Of  holy  Ganga's  healing  water-wave, 

Long  travelled,  breathed  of  many  airs,  reviewed 

Forests  of  sandal,  where  the  Spring  wind  blew, 

And  tender-petalled  lily-beds,  whereo'er 

The  gray  crane  spanned  his  gracious,  level  flight. 

Westward  I  followed,  following  every  day 

In  quest  of  that  he  bade  me.    At  the  last 

I  beheld  Sindhus,  and  my  errand  's  done. 

Hear,  Sakhi,  yet  awhile  my  destiny. 
The  burning  season  shone.    I  stayed  —  too  late. 
The  people's  rumour  told  of  a  great  host, 
Yavanas  named,  from  the  utter  unknown  lands, 
Generalled  by  a  god  and  more  innumerable 


[13] 

Than  drops  in  rainy  season;  giants  all, 
That  tramped  about  the  edges  of  the  world 
And  rose  like  a  live  night  of  crying  birds 
Across  and  thro'  high  heaven,  then  fell  to  earth  — 
What  needs  the  many  words  ?    The  Greeks  were  on. 
One  midday  hour  the  world  did  leap  apart, 
And  thence  a  thirsty  multitude  in  riot, 
With  women,  gold,  flocks,  armour,  camels,  coins; 
Maddened  with  hunger  for  another  world; 
Each  vagabond  upon  his  empty  heart 
An  empire's  jewel  scattering  the  light. 
They  sacked  the  land,  then  weary  sat  them  down, 
And  with  a  million  mouths  and  voices  cried 
They  'd  walk  the  wide  and  feeble  earth  no  more. 
So  spake  the  children  and  the  world  obeyed. 
Oceanward,  between  patient  Sindhus'  shores, 
The  locusts  moved,  leaving  a  piteous  land, 
With  goods  and  gold  and  men,  whereof  was  I. 
Over  a  milky  ocean  torn  with  flame 
And  faced  with  greenish  current,  'long  a  shore 
Crusted  with  yellow  sand,  beneath  a  sky 
Of  endless  sun,  they  lived  and  sailed  and  died. 
Then  for  a  little  year  the  millions  tramped 
Thro'  deserts  flat  as  sea  and  gray  as  cloud, 
Till  they  saw  finally  a  shore.    And  ships 
Bore  them  'twixt  isle  and  isle,  after  the  sun, 
Into  the  port  yonder,  Peiraios  called, 
To   rest.     'Twas   home,   they   said;   and    all    men 
wept. 


[14] 

I  found  their  painted  fanes  and  naked  gods 

And  all  these  children  babbling  in  the  sun. 

First  did  I  hunger,  knowing  no  trick  or  trade, 

Knowing  nothing  that  sold  brings  money  in. 

I  talked  not,  nor  could  understand  at  all 

This  Grecian  race  of  laughter,  pleasure,  song. 

Pity,  nor  giving  alms,  nor  anything 

That  makes  the  spirit  pure,  is  here.    They  live, 

And  suffer  the  forgetfulness  of  life. 

This  is  my  tale:   One  night  I  walked  abroad 

Ere  dawn  a  dreary  hour,  the  market-place 

More  dark  than  any  jungle.    Cold  it  was. 

I  walked,  when  five  cold  fingers  touched  my  arm,  — 

Beside,  a  Phrygian  slave.    Often  I'd  seen 

Him  and  his  fortune-table's  dozen  birds,  — 

" Oneiropolos "  called,  "seller  of  dreams." 

He  looked  me  in  the  eyes  and  took  my  arm 

And  led  me  here;   awhile  rehearsed  his  tricks: 

Teased  with  his  forefinger  a  bird's  soft  throat,  — 

Which  leapt  on't,  pecked  and  picked  one  single  card. 

So  did  the  Phrygian  seven  times,  and  went. 

Over  Akropolis  was  golden  dawn. 

Their  naked  gods  all  bloomed  with  light.   The  dark 

In  violet  veils  dissolved  down  the  steep  heaven, 

And  I  stood  here,  selling  to  Athens  dreams. 

A  dying  town  filled  of  a  feeble  race, 
Small  gossips  of  their  all-expressing  tongue, 
Dancers  and  frolickers,  philosophers 


[15] 

Drunken  and  sense-tied  to  the  trembling  world. 
Hither  from  fifty  climes  men  come  and  come, 
Women  and  children  come  to  see  —  't  is  strange!  - 
This  city  of  the  old  and  marble  things. 
'T  was  miracle,  say  they,  what  sights  were  seen 
Here,  Sakhi,  one  great  hundred  years  agone  — 
For  they  count  Time  upon  their  nervous  hand. 
Galleys  and  chariots,  beauty,  victory,  gold, 
And  gods  they  had,  whose  fair  procession  walked 
With  maidens,  cattle,  priests  and  horse;   whereof 
Up  in  the  shadows  of  the  fane,  yonder, 
Is  marble  picture  by  a  studied  hand. 
So  at  their  pretty  game  the  children  played 
Building  and  singing  on.  —  But  all  is  gone. 
'Tis  vision,  tale  of  poets,  memory,  nothing; 
Now  there  is  void  shadow,  blown  by  wind, 
And  the  unstoried  year  is  rolled  away. 

Here  in  the  dying  town  I  sell  them  dreams, 
Here  where  the  Phrygian  stood.    At  evening 
I  knock  at  yonder  gate  in  the  High  Wall, 
And  enter.    Courteously  a  gentle  man 
Leads  me  within,  to  shade.    Upon  his  lips 
Their  chattering  Greek  is  low  and  lovelier. 
I  sit  me  down.    My  supper  bowl  of  rice 
He  gives,  saying,  "  My  friend,  rejoice  in  peace." 
Down  thro'  his  olive  orchard,  shadowy 
And  still  and  secret  as  the  things  of  Ind, 
The  lily-like  soft  evening  gathers  dark. 


[16] 

Blest  is  his  pious  deed;  for  many  hear 
The  spoken  solace  of  his  quietude. 
To  him  what  little  coin  I  gather  here, 
Not  in  exchange  or  manner  of  the  West, 
I  bring.    For  Epicurus  aids  the  poor. 

Peace!  My  words  are  many.    Now  peace  to  thee! 

For  yonder  comes  as  ever  at  this  time 

Phryne,  the  rose  and  glory  of  their  world. 

Her  veil  is  wove  of  sunrise,  and  her  face 

The  white  moon  set  between  two  clouds  of  black. 

Her  eye 's  a  firefly  and  her  voice  a  viol. 

She  walks  as  when  a  bird  follows  the  sea. 

Here  daily  falls  her  piece  of  gold,  —  she 's  rich 

And  timid  as  the  shining  meteor, 

And  hovers  mothlike  round  her  destiny; 

For  all  her  wings  and  beauty  are  for  sale. 

[1897] 


[17] 
LUCRETIUS 

Sperata  Voluptas  Suavis  Amicitiae 

SLOW  Spring  that,  slipping  thro'  the  silver  light, 
Like  some  young  wanderer  now  returnest  home 
After  strange  years, 

How  like  to  me!  to  mine  thy  timorous  plight! 
Who  quietly  near  my  friendship's  altar  come 
Where  yet  no  God  appears. 

By  many  a  deed  I  sought  to  win  his  love, 

Made  him  a  wreath  of  all  my  songs  and  hours,  — 

Most  vain,  most  fair! 

Now  falls  about  the  shroud  my  years  have  wove; 

My  evening  drops  her  large,  slow  purple  flowers 

Thro'  gardens  of  gold  air. 

To  him  this  verse,  to  him  this  crown  of  leaves, 

My  supreme  piety  shall  I  commend: 

This  is  my  last, 

Wreathed  of  what  Youth  endows  and  Age  bereaves, 

Bound  by  the  fingers  of  a  lover  and  friend, 

Green  with  the  vital  past. 

We  sunder,  he  my  Truth,  I  the  desire. 
I  spread  my  wooing  fingers,  I  would  earn 
His  least  address: 
But  parcels  of  the  heaven-dispersed  fire, 


[18] 

Sky-severed  exiles,  we  divinely  learn 
To  suffer  loneliness. 

My  life  was  little  in  joy,  little  in  pain; 

Mine  were  the  wise  denials,  with  none  I  coped 

To  win  the  sky; 

And  when  I  surely  saw  my  love  was  vain  — 

The  joy  of  his  sweet  friendship  I  had  hoped  — 

I  stilled.    Now  let  me  die,  — 

Now  that  the  endless  wind  is  growing  warm, 

Richer  the  star,  and  flowers  on  many  a  slope 

Undo  their  sheath; 

O  let  us  yield  to  life's  divinest  charm 

That  lured  us  thro'  the  blasted  field  of  hope, 

Let  us  return  to  death. 

[1895] 


[19] 

AGE    IN   YOUTH 

FROM  far  she 's  come,  and  very  old, 
And  very  soiled  with  wandering. 
The  dust  of  seasons  she  has  brought 
Unbidden  to  this  field  of  Spring. 

She 's  halted  at  the  log-barred  gate. 
The  May-day  waits,  a  tangled  spill 
Of  light  that  weaves  and  moves  along 
The  daisied  margin  of  the  hill, 

Where  Nature  bares  her  bridal  heart, 
And  on  her  snowy  soul  the  sun 
Languors  desirously  and  dull, 
An  amorous  pale  vermilion. 

She's  halted,  propped  her  rigid  arms, 
With  dead  big  eyes  she  drinks  the  west; 
The  brown  rags  hang  like  clotted  dust 
About  her,  save  her  withered  breast. 

A  very  soilure  of  a  dream 
Runs  in  the  furrows  of  her  brow, 
And  with  a  crazy  voice  she  croons 
An  ugly  catch  of  long  ago. 

Its  broken  rhythm  is  hard  and  hoarse, 
Its  sunken  soul  of  music  toils 
In  precious  ashes,  dust  of  youth 
And  lovely  faces  sorrow  soils. 


[20] 

But  look!  Along  the  molten  sky 
There  runs  strange  havoc  of  the  sun. 
"What  a  strange  sight  this  is,"  she  says, 
"I'll  cross  the  field,  I'll  follow  on." 

The  bars  are  falling  from  the  gate. 
The  meshes  of  the  meadow  yield; 
And  trudging  sunsetward  she  draws 
A  journey  thro'  the  daisy  field. 

The  daisies  shudder  at  her  hem. 
Her  dry  face  laughs  with  flowery  light; 
An  aureole  lifts  her  soiled  gray  hair: 
"I'll  on,"  she  says,  "to  see  this  sight." 

In  the  rude  math  her  torn  shoe  mows 
Juices  of  trod  grass  and  crushed  stalk 
Mix  with  a  soiled  and  earthy  dew, 
With  smear  of  petals  gray  as  chalk. 

The  Spring  grows  sour  along  her  track; 
The  winy  airs  of  amethyst 
Turn  acid.    "  Just  beyond  the  ledge," 
She  says,  "I'll  see  the  sun  at  rest." 

And  to  the  tremor  of  her  croon, 
Her  old,  old  catch  of  long  ago, 
The  newest  daisies  of  the  grass 
She  shreds  and  passes  on  below.  .  .  . 


[21] 

The  sun  is  gone  where  nothing  is 
And  the  black-bladed  shadows  war. 
She  came  and  passed,  she  passed  along 
That  wet,  black  curve  of  scimitar. 

In  vain  the  flower-lifting  morn 

With  golden  fingers  to  uprear 

The  weak  Spring  here  shall  pause  awhile: 

This  is  a  scar  upon  the  year. 

[1895] 


[22] 

IN    SUMMER 

IT'S  growing  evening  in  my  soul, 

It  darkens  in. 

At  the  gray  window  now  and  then 

I  hear  them  toll 

The  hour-and-day-long  chimes  of  St.  Etienne. 

Indeed  I'd  not  have  lived  elsewhere 

Nor  otherwise, 

Nor  as  the  dreary  saying  is 

Been  happier, 

To  wear  the  love  of  life  within  my  eyes. 

My  heart's  desolate  meadow  ways, 

All  wet  and  green, 

Opened  for  her  to  wander  in 

A  little  space. 

I'd  have  it  even  so  as  it  has  been. 

I've  lived  the  days  that  fly  away, 

I  have  a  tale 

To  tell  when  age  has  made  me  pale 

And  hair  of  gray 

Excuse  the  fancy  shaking  out  her  sail. 

No  one  shall  know  what  I  intend. 

Even  as  I  feel 

The  aching  voices  make  appeal 


[23] 

And  swell  and  blend, 

It  seems  to  me  I  might  stoop  down  to  kneel 

In  memory  of  that  day  in  June 

When,  all  the  land 

Lying  out  in  lazy  summer  fanned 

Now  and  anon 

By  dying  breezes  from  the  Channel  strand, 

With  nothing  in  our  lives  behind, 

Nothing  before, 

In  sunlight  rich  as  melting  ore 

And  wide  as  wind 

We  clomb  the  donjon  tower  of  old  Gisors 

Thro'  the  portcullis  botched  in  wood 

And  up,  in  fear, 

A  laddered  darkness  of  a  stair, 

Up  to  the  good 

Sun-stricken  prospect  and  the  dazzling  air.  — 

Even  now  I  shade  my  breaking  eyes. — 

And  by  her  side 

Surely  she  saw  my  heart  divide 

Like  paradise 

For  her  to  walk  abroad  in  at  noon-tide. 

It  swims  about  my  memory. 
I  feel  around 


[24] 

The  country  steeped  in  summer  swound; 

I  feel  the  sigh 

That  all  these  years  within  her  breast  was  bound. 

Her  fingers  in  my  hand  are  laid. 

I  seem  to  gaze 

Into  the  colours  of  her  face, 

And  there  is  made 

A  quiver  in  my  knees  like  meadow-grass*. 

That  time  I  lived  the  life  I  have: 

A  certain  flower 

Blooms  in  a  hundred  years  one  hour, 

And  what  it  gave 

Is  richer,  no,  nor  more,  but  all  its  power. 

The  chimes  have  ended  for  to-day. 

After  midnight 

Solitude  blows  her  candle  out; 

Dreams  go  away, 

And  memory  falls  from  the  mast  of  thought. 


[25] 

IN    AMPEZZO 

ONLY  once  more  and  not  again  —  the  larches 
Shake  to  the  wind  their  echo,  "  Not  again,"  — 
We  see,  below  the  sky  that  over-arches 
Heavy  and  blue,  the  plain 

Between  Tofana  lying  and  Cristallo 
In  meadowy  earths  above  the  ringing  stream: 
Whence  interchangeably  desire  may  follow, 
Hesitant  as  in  dream, 

At  sunset,  south,  by  lilac  promontories 
Under  green  skies  to  Italy,  or  forth 
By  calms  of  morning  beyond  Lavinores 
Tyrolward  and  to  north: 

As  now,  this  last  of  latter  days,  when  over 
The  brownish  field  by  peasants  are  undone 
Some  widths  of  grass,  some  plots  of  mountain  clover 
Under  the  autumn  sun, 

With  honey-warm  perfume  that  risen  lingers 
In  mazes  of  low  heat,  or  takes  the  air, 
Passing  delicious  as  a  woman's  fingers 
Passing  amid  the  hair; 

When  scythes  are  swishing  and  the  mower's  muscle 
Spans  a  repeated  crescent  to  and  fro, 
Or  in  dry  stalks  of  corn  the  sickles  rustle, 
Tangle,  detach  and  go, 


[26] 

Far  thro*  the  wide  blue  day  and  greening  meadow 
Whose  blots  of  amber  beaded  are  with  sheaves, 
Whereover  pallidly  a  cloud-shadow 
Deadens  the  earth  and  leaves: 

Whilst  high  around  and  near,  their  heads  of  iron 
Sunken  in  sky  whose  azure  overlights 
Ravine  and  edges,  stand  the  gray  and  maron 
Desolate  Dolomites,  — 

And  older  than  decay  from  the  small  summit 
Unfolds  a  stream  of  pebbly  wreckage  down 
Under  the  suns  of  midday,  like  some  comet 
Struck  into  gravel  stone. 

Faintly  across  this  gold  and  amethystine 
September,  images  of  summer  fade; 
And  gentle  dreams  now  freshen  on  the  pristine 
Viols,  awhile  unplayed, 

Of  many  a  place  where  lovingly  we  wander, 
More  dearly  held  that  quickly  we  forsake,  — 
A  pine  by  sullen  coasts,  an  oleander 
Reddening  on  the  lake. 

And  there,  each  year  with  more  familiar  motion, 
From  many  a  bird  and  windy  forestries, 
Or  along  shaking  fringes  of  the  ocean, 
Vapours  of  music  rise. 


[27] 

From  many  easts  the  morning  gives  her  splendour; 
The  shadows  fill  with  colours  we  forget; 
Remembered  tints  at  evening  grow  tender, 
Tarnished  with  violet. 

Let  us  away!  soon  sheets  of  winter  metal 
On  this  discoloured  mountain-land  will  close, 
While  elsewhere  Spring-time  weaves  a  crimson  petal, 
Builds  and  perfumes  a  rose. 

Away!  for  here  the  mountain  sinks  in  gravel. 
Let  us  forget  the  unhappy  site  with  change, 
And  go,  if  only  happiness  be  travel 
After  the  new  and  strange :  — 

Unless  't  were  better  to  be  very  single, 

To  follow  some  diviner  monotone, 

And  in  all  beauties,  where  ourselves  commingle, 

Love  but  a  love,  but  one, 

Across  this  shadowy  minute  of  our  living, 
What  time  our  hearts  so  magically  sing, 
To  meditate  our  fever,  simply  giving 
All  in  a  little  thing  ? 

Just  as  here,  past  yon  dumb  and  melancholy 
Sameness  of  ruin,  while  the  mountains  ail, 
Summer  and  sunset-coloured  autumn  slowly 
Dissipate  down  the  vale; 


[28] 

And  all  these  lines  along  the  sky  that  measure 
Sorapis  and  the  rocks  of  Mezzodi 
Crumble  by  foamy  miles  into  the  azure 
Mediterranean  sea: 

Whereas  to-day  at  sunrise,  under  brambles, 
A  league  above  the  moss  and  dying  pines 
I  picked  this  little  —  in  my  hand  that  trembles 
Parcel  of  columbines. 

[1898] 


.     [29] 

MNEMOSYNE 
IT'S  autumn  in  the  country  I  remember. 

How  warm  a  wind  blew  here  about  the  ways! 
And  shadows  on  the  hillside  lay  to  slumber 
During  the  long  sun-sweetened  summer-days. 

It's  cold  abroad  the  country  I  remember. 

The  swallows  veering  skimmed  the  golden  grain 
At  midday  with  a  wing  aslant  and  limber; 
And  yellow  cattle  browsed  upon  the  plain. 

It 's  empty  down,  the  country  I  remember. 

I  had  a  sister  lovely  in  my  sight: 

Her  hair  was  dark,  her  eyes  were  very  sombre; 

We  sang  together  in  the  woods  at  night. 

It 's  lonely  in  the  country  I  remember. 

The  babble  of  our  children  fills  my  ears, 
And  on  our  hearth  I  stare  the  perished  ember 
To  flames  that  show  all  starry  thro'  my  tears. 

It 's  dark  about  the  country  I  remember. 


[30] 

There  are  the  mountains  where  I  lived.    The  path 
Is  slushed  with  cattle-tracks  and  fallen  timber, 
The  stumps  are  twisted  by  the  tempests'  wrath. 

But  that  I  knew  these  places  are  my  own, 

I'd  ask  how  came  such  wretchedness  to  cumber 

The  earth,  and  I  to  people  it  alone. 

It  rains  across  the  country  I  remember. 


[31] 

LODOVICO    MARTELLI 

O  GADDI,  ope  the  casement,  open  wide 

And  prop  my  pillow.    But  the  window  square 

Of  light,  of  sky!  tho'  skies  of  Sicily 

Are  not  Firenze's.    Ah,  Firenze  mine! 

Darkly  I  feel  how's  wasting  all  my  life 

And  dulls  my  brain;  Death's  guessing  at  my  name. 

But  utter  strange  it  is  to  die.    The  word 

"Life"  to  my  ear  rings  mournful-rich  and  stings 

The  sleepy  nerve  of  longing.  This  is  pain  — 

To  stifle  far  from  home,  the  heart  suppressed 

By  a  handful  of  such  years  as  other  men 

Make  nought  of.    Mercy  of  God,  what  mother  e'er 

Fashioned  a  heart  so  brittle,  a  head  and  brain 

Whereof  the  tissues  crack  with  fever  ?    Why 

Live  ?  to  have  tasted  life  ?  —  and  die  of  't !  aye, 

'T  was  little  more. 

The  silly,  silly  tears. 

But  Gaddi,  look,  my  head,  my  arm!    Indeed 
Think  you  that  I  revive  ?    Meseemeth  now 
The  Spring  should  soften  Fiesole  to  flower 
And  Colli  meadows  show  to  every  wind 
New  petals  of  anemony.    How  often 
By  the  divine  immemorable  days, 
By  sober  afterlight  when  marvel  is 
And  all  Firenze  turns  a  smouldering  gold  — 
How  oft  upon  the  hillside  have  we  heard 
The  melancholy  ritornello!    Ah 


[32] 

What  Springs  were  they !    Tell  me  if  ever,  since, 
The  night  was  moonful,  or  a  woman's  eye 
Tearfully  asked  a  softer  question  ? 
How  waved  the  paling  heaven's  embroidery, 
What  wonder  woke  the  odoured  bloom  of  earth, 
What  music  had  the  tongue  of  Tuscany, 
What  rhymes!    How  large  a  burial  is  the  Past! 

And  thence  away  to  Rome,  to  sovran  Rome. 
What  were  the  sickly  earth  without  its  Rome, 
Its  gorgeous  city  where  the  revels  are, 
Dice  and  cards  and  the  old  ecstatic  wine 
That  glints  dark  ruby,  and  superbly  eyed 
The  rich  and  unimpassioned  courtesans, 
And  Leo,  Pope  — 

Yes,  listen.    One  great  once 
I  saw  the  heavenly  Householder,  but  far 
From's  home.    Come  nearer,  Gaddi,  hist!    Ye  know 
The  Morosina  who  has  Italia's  hair, 
Whose  eye  is  somewhat  strangely  more  than  blue, 
Who  laughs  like  beech-leaves  ringing  in  the  light; 
Her  kisses  indolent  as  a  warm  rain.  .  .  . 
I  dream.    The  Pope  said  I  ?    'T  was  winter  night. 
The  wind  fell  edged  and  pointed  down  the  lane 
Beneath  the  casement  many  have  looked  to,  where 
Stood  I,  whistling  a  feverish  tune.    And  straight 
'T  was  oped.    I  entered.    All  about  mine  ear 
I  heard  "  My  Lodovico,"  —  such  a  sound 
Became  the  long  and  melancholy  name! 


[33] 

I  drew  my  mask,  and  darkly  there  I  saw  — 
Nothing,  but  felt  and  breathed  veriest  Heaven. 
About  our  kiss  did  move  her  tender  hair. 
Her  breast  to  mine,  her  living  arms,  her  brow  — 
The  memory  aches  me  that  it  is  so  dead. 
She  led  me  with  a  touch  like  melody 
That  being  fore'er  more  forward  in  the  air 
Still  guides.    The  cold  and  arched  corridor 
We  traversed,  I  a  dreamer  sunsetwards 
And  she  the  moving  beauty  of  the  day. 
We  climbed  the  stair,  a  sick  moon-gazer  I 
Beneath  her  white  and  spirit-winged  moon: 
Till  in  her  chamber  with  our  eyes  we  lit 
The  owlish  gloom  about  her  tapestry. 
Upon  his  horse  the  hunter  moved  asleep 
And  every  falcon  turned  owl.    Alone 
The  cresset  flickered  on  the  fragrant  oil, 
Shedding  an  old  small  light.    And  she  and  I 
We  sung  the  night  with  kisses  low  adream. 
She  said  the  wonder  things  in  olden  words; 
She  made  a  music  languorous  as  Time 
And  rich  as  Summer,  whilst  her  endless  hair 
Seemed  Aphrodite's  o'er  the  shallow  wave 
Thin-spread  at  midday.    Odour  never  rose 
Sweet  as  her  breasts',  and  musically  she 
Did  often  turn  her  golden  head  away 
That  gazing  I  might  weave  and  weave  my  soul 
Into  a  necklace  stringed  of  sleepy  pearl 
Without  a  clasp.  — 


[34] 

But  then  befell  the  thing. 
Methought  I  heard,  I  heard  indeed  a  door 
Noising  —  and  near.    I  threw  'r  aside.    "  By  Christ, 
A  snare !  now  bless  me — where  's  my  sword  ?  my  mask  ?  " 
"  I  love  thy  soul,"  she  sang.    "  Is 't  Bembo  ?  "    "  No." 
"  The  whorish  trade ! "  Her  shaking  hand  she  put 
In  mine.    The  step  grew  living  near.    I  drew. 
Then  most  superbly  on  the  threshold  poised 
An  all-black  cavalier,  save  in  the  mask 
Two  fires.    "By  Venus,"  quoth,  "a  lady  's  here 
That  loves  too  widely  to  love  well.    Good  sir, 
Suppose  — "    "A  sword's  enough  for  courtesy." 
He  drew  a  wonder  of  Toledo  blade 
That  rang  like  music.    Masterly  we  fenced 
And  plied  our  gallant  art  Italian, 
Till  on  a  sudden  her  most  delirious  form 
Rushed  with  a  cry  betwixt  us.    But  she  fell 
Half-sensed.    We  moved.    Then  with  an  elfish  pass 
I  pierced  his  hand.    The  weapon  fell  to  ground,  — 
And  he  was  flying,  —  but  next  about  his  waist 
Her  tender  arms  imploring  pardon  clung. 
He  struggled,  stumbled,  fell;  the  mask  removed; 
By  Jesu  God  in  Heaven,  verily  I 
Then  saw  great  Leo's  face,  the  Pope's  of  Rome. 
I  shuddered  as  a  reed,  my  brain  rocked,  all 
Withered  together  crumbling  in  my  soul: 
I  fled,  yet  with  a  backward  look  to  see 
The  mistress  of  the  gods  make  of  her  hair, 
Her  golden  hair,  a  Pontiff's  chasuble.  — 


[35] 

Dost  thou  believe  I  'm  dying  of  darkish  things, 
Of  poison  —  ? 

Ah,  my  heart 's  a  crust  of  ash. 
And  glowing  chains  are  piled  about  my  head. 
Raving  ?    Not  I.    Give  me  no  drugs.    The  world 
I  charioted  have  left  in  dust  behind.  , 

For  I  was  Poet.  —  They  said,  they  said  "  A  soft 
Poet,  who  stole  Petrarca's  melodies 
And  spoiled  his  robbery."    Soft  in  verse  I  was, 
A  master  had  I  like,  forsooth,  the  rest.  .  .  . 
But  nothing  timeless  said!    Full  well  I  know't, 
The  shaft  is  on  my  heart's  bow,  poised,  unloosed! 
While  Raphael  delves  a  ceiling  into  skies 
Peopling  his  coloured  thought,  and  Agnolo 
Makes  the  fresh-quarried  adamant  to  sweat 
Ferocious  agony,  or  in  peace  reclined 
To  look  long  looks  abroad  the  shifting  world. 
I  ?  why,  I  'd  sing  for  them,  I  Lodovico 
Martelli.    I  would  send  my  songs  full-sailed 
Over  the  waves  and  waters  of  the  years. 
Let  them  be  painter,  sculptor:  poet,  I. 
For  your  unquiet  thoughts,  the  horrid  strong, 
I  have  them, — writ?   not  yet!   but  here's  my  heart, 
Feel  it!  so  tramped  the  innumerable  host 
When  Rome  was  burned.    And  very  vast  a  tale 
Were  half  its  history.    Often  have  I  stood 
On  hills  high  up,  by  sorry  coasts,  alone 
Passing  my  vision  angrily.    I  thought 
To  have  plucked  the  yellow  comets  by  their  hair, 


[36] 

To  have  braided  meteors,  and  from  'hind  the  moon 
Robbed  her  society  of  chanting  tides. 
I'd  stand,  my  back  to  the  seaward  cliffs,  at  bay 
And  fight  the  wave.    Completed  earth's  a  leaf 
Turning  in  space  along  with  the  other  dust 
That  blinds  the  eye  of  God. 

Away,  away! 

Canst  see  the  waters  from  the  window  ?    Help, 
Help,  sir.    I've  clomb  Vesuvius  of  old, 
Tasting  its  breath  —  't  was  half  so  steep.    Behold, 
Yon  rolls  in  wide  and  worldly  rhythm  the  sea, 
Greatest  and  eldest  poet.    Yonder  chants 
The  epic  wave  in  rich  monotony. 
Mine  eye  seems  big  as  heaven.    And  far  abroad 
From  Even's  distaff  floats  the  purple  wool. 
Wet-eyed  she  sits;  the  light  for  love  of  her 
Becomes  a  moon  but  to  behold  her  die  — 
The  moon  —  Firenze !   Is  Firenze  near  ? 
Methinks  't  were  half  a  journey. 

Ah,  but  were  we  there! 
How  fresh  her  lip  is  graven  on  my  heart. 
I  see  her,  palely.    But  —  tell  me,  who  knows  — 
Is  she  not  waxen,  like  me,  somewhat  old  ? 
For  something  long  has  happened.    All's  ago. 
I  was  ages  ago,  and  in  the  world 
We  were  together  young.    Say,  am  I  dead 
That  I'm  so  far?    Perhaps  shall  I  return. 
Bid  Laura  wait  for  April;  I  return, 
I  that  so  endless  loved  her,  love  her.    Say: 


[37] 

"  Within  the  colour-cupped  anemonies 
Lieth  his  heart,  and  all  the  leaves  are  he. 
The  gentle  ecstasy  of  earth,  the  wind 
That  lifts  so  happily  thy  hair  is  he, 
And  he  the  Spring  that  holds  thee  all  about." 
O  Gaddi,  I  shall  not  return.    My  mood 
Is  his  who  sits  upon  a  farther  shore, 
Waiting  and  sick. 

It's  night  and  strangely  cold. 
To  bed !   't  is  bitter  cold.    My  very  breast 
Quivers.    Hold  me,  good  Gaddi,  —  or  I  shake 
To  death.    My  body's  dry.    Christ,  what  a  world! 
Water,  good  soul,  water!   Hold  thou  the  cup. 
[1898] 


[38] 

DOLOROSA 

THOU  hadst  thy  will. 

How  weary  sounds  the  rain! 

The  firelight  wanders  in  the  window-pane. 

Thou  art  still. 


Let  me  a  space, 

Now  that  the  daylight  dies, 

Lie  back  against  thee  and  with  upward  eyes 

Love  thy  face. 

Forgive  my  fear, 

But  —  darling  —  hold  me  fast ! 

A  little  while  the  heartache  will  be  past. 

Patience,  dear. 

Give  me  thy  hands 

And  bending  closely  o'er 

Lay  thy  two  lips  to  mine  for  evermore. 

Death  commands. 


[39] 

PITY 

AN  old  light  smoulders  in  her  eye. 
There!  she  looks  up.    They  grow  and  glow 
Like  mad  laughs  of  a  rhapsody 
That  flickers  out  in  woe. 

An  old  charm  slips  into  her  sighs, 
An  old  grace  sings  about  her  hand. 
She  bends:  it's  musically  wise. 
I  cannot  understand. 

Her  voice  is  strident;  but  a  spell 
Of  fluted  whisper  silkens  in  — 
The  lost  heart  in  a  moss-grown  bell, 
Faded  —  but  sweet  —  but  thin. 

She  bows  like  waves  —  waves  near  the  shore. 
Her  hair  is  in  a  vulgar  knot  — 
Lovely,  dark  hair,  whose  curves  deplore 
Something  she's  well  forgot. 

She  must  have  known  the  sun,  the  moon, 
On  heaven's  warm  throat  star-jewels  strung  - 
It's  late.    The  gas-lights  flicker  on. 
Young,  only  in  years,  but  young! 

One  might  remind  her,  say  the  street 
Is  dark  and  vile  now  day  is  done. 
But  would  she  care,  she  fear  to  meet  — 
But  there  she  goes  —  is  gone. 


[40] 

SONG 

A  BUD  has  burst  on  the  upper  bough 

(The  linnet  sang  in  my  heart  to-day); 

I  know  where  the  pale  green  grasses  show 

By  a  tiny  runnel,  off  the  way, 

And  the  earth  is  wet. 

(A  cuckoo  said  in  my  brain:   "Not  yet.") 

I  nabbed  the  fly  in  a  briar  rose 

(The  linnet  to-day  in  my  heart  did  sing) ; 

Last  night,  my  head  tucked  under  my  wing, 

I  dreamed  of  a  green  moon-moth  that  glows 

Thro'  ferns  of  June. 

(A  cuckoo  said  in  my  brain:   "So  soon?") 

Good-bye,  for  the  pretty  leaves  are  down 
(The  linnet  sang  in  my  heart  to-day) ; 
The  last  gold  bit  of  upland  's  mown, 
And  most  of  summer  has  blown  away 
Thro'  the  garden  gate. 
(A  cuckoo  said  in  my  brain:   "Too  late.") 


[41] 

RALSTON 

To  thee,  that  all  this  wretchedness  be  ended 
And  I  become  in  my  disaster  free, 
I  bring  my  broken  life  to  be  amended. 
Take  me,  O  sea, 

0  sea  of  California,  thou  Pacific, 

For  which  the  multitude  of  mortals  bound 
Go  trembling  headlong  down  and  with  terrific 
Outcry  are  drowned. 

Take  me  out  of  the  earth  that  I  remain  not 
To  tell  to  gossips  in  a  hovel  tales 
Of  what  I  was.    I  who  have  squandered  cannot 
Play  with  the  scales. 

1  who  with  power  and  riches  stood  surrounded 
And  gave  as  princes,  and  without  a  throne 
Was  King  the  greater  that  for  name  I  sounded 
Only  my  own: 

I  must  have  gone  away,  not  die  nor  wither 

But  vanish  like  a  rolling  sound  of  brass, 

A  comet  burst  which  —  without  whence  or  whither 

Or  wherefore  —  was. 

For  men  born  out  of  yesterday  are  yestern, 
For  men  to-day  are  of  to-day.    And  we, 
We  need  only  ourselves,  we  men  of  Western 
Democracy. 


[42] 

By  my  own  sinews  and  own  brain,  unweakened 
By  lineage  and  generations,  I 
Did  what  I  did,  and  with  the  wide  world  reckoned 
To  live  and  die. 

I  gave  and  had  no  memory  of  measure. 
Others  can  tell  who  rollicked  at  my  feast; 
And  in  my  palace  there  was  greater  pleasure 
Than  in  the  East. 

I  did  enjoy  and  drank  the  beaker  frothing; 
I  have  kindled  the  splendours  every  one. 
Tho'  my  magnificence  to-day  be  nothing, 
I  say,  I  won,  — 

I  won.    And  fortune  cast  me  her  dismissal! 

Of  traps  and  treasures  whereof  I  could  say 

'T  is  mine!  there's  not  so  much  as  rubbish.    This  all 

Was  yesterday. 

Squalid  and  sad  where  I  before  did  conquer, 
Doubtless  again  I  could  have  victory, 
Again  lie  in  the  golden  gates  at  anchor  — 
Receive  me,  sea! 

There  sinks  the  sun  in  dusts  of  sulphur  glowing 
Gibbous  and  red;  and  flaking  toward  the  shore 
Like  hosts  of  scarlet  willow-leaves  bestrewing 
The  sapphire  floor. 


[43] 

And  from  the  country  evening  scarce  arisen 
Out  of  the  flowering  oranges  the  breeze,  — 
The  breeze  will  carry  me  to  the  horizon, 
To  silences 

Of  sky  and  wave,  the  dark,  the  swirling  eddy, 
The  sinking  down  out  of  the  vital  air, 
And  down  out  of  myself,  down  from  the  giddy 
Glories  that  were. 


[44] 
DRIFTWOOD 


HEAVEN  is  lovelier  than  the  stars, 
The  sea  is  fairer  than  the  shore; 
I've  seen  beyond  the  sunset  bars 
A  colour  more. 

A  thought  is  floating  round  my  mind, 
And  there  are  words  that  will  not  come. 
Do  you  believe,  as  I,  the  wind 
Somewhere  goes  home  ? 

ii 

In  grassy  paths  my  spirit  walks. 
The  earth  I  travel  speaks  me  fair 
And  still  thro'  many  voices  talks 
Of  that  deep  oneness  which  we  are. 

I  love  to  see  the  rolling  sod 
Mixing  and  changing  ever  grow 
To  other  forms,  —  and  this  is  God 
And  all  of  God  and  all  we  know. 

I  love  to  feel  the  dead  dust  whirled 
About  my  face,  to  touch  the  dust; 
And  this  large  muteness  of  the  world 
Gives  me  vitality  of  trust. 


[45] 

Here  on  the  earth  I  lie  a  space, 
The  quiet  earth  that  knows  no  strife. 
I  mix  with  her  and  take  my  place 
In  the  dark  matter  that  is  life. 
[1895] 

in 

I  saw  the  moon  and  heard  her  sing, 
I  saw  her  sing  and  heard  the  moon. 
For  light  and  song  went  wing  and  wing. 

So  many  a  ship  and  many  a  star 
Abroad  the  sky  and  sea  are  two. 
We  know  it  not  for  being  far. 

So  two  fair  flowers  make  a  whole 
In  corner  meadows  of  the  spring. 
It  takes  two  hearts  to  make  a  soul; 

And  down  the  cloudy  days  they  fare 
Married  in  Beauty,  as  of  old 
The  lovers  thro'  the  infernal  air. 

IV 

Between  the  sun  and  moon 
A  voice  now  vague  now  clear  — 
Do  you  hear  ?  — 
Says  "Wander  on." 

And  on  the  hearthstone  black 
The  embers  poignantly  — 
Do  you  see  ?  — 
Spell  "Come  back." 


[46] 

REQUIESCAM 

COME  to  the  window !   You  're  the  painter  used 

To  shadow-in  pools  of  light  far  out  to  sea, 

Or  fix  it  where  the  solitary  wave 

Rears  with  a  shimmering  scoop  before  the  shore,  — 

A  glorious  wave!    But  now  look  out  awhile 

And  love  my  view,  from  our  suburban  height 

The  squalid  champaign  zigzagged  by  the  Seine. 

I'm  old,  most  of  my  labour  done.    My  chisel 

One  of  these  days  among  the  pellets  of  dry  clay 

Will  lie  and  rust.    I  have  immensely  worked, 

And  hitherto  seen  nothing  but  the  Form 

Staring  upon  my  eyeballs.    Years  and  years, 

Whether  alone  along  the  shining  streets 

O'  the  city  or  in  companionship,  I  Jve  looked 

So  long  and  seen  away  so  fixedly 

That  space  scrolled  up,  I  seeing  none  the  less: 

Except  some  shape,  some  woman  lightning-blenched, 

Pinned  to  the  ground,  lay  dreadful  in  my  road. 

O  Labour,  everlasting  vanity, 

That  fills  her  cracking  pitcher  and  falls  down 

Face  to  the  earth,  the  water  in  her  hair! 

Into  a  bole  of  clay  all  my  life  long 

I've  stared  my  visions  in,  and,  thumbing,  seen 

Materialize  obscurely  to  a  line 

The  long  desire  of  Nature  turning  home. 


[47] 

So  strains  itself  out  of  the  sea  a  shape 
With  loads  of  weedy  tide  up  to  the  land, 
Straining  to  touch  and  taste,  to  lose  and  die, 
Straining  fore'er  miserably  unsatisfied. 
Between  the  toad  and  lyre-bird,  'twixt  the  snail 
And  greyhound  all  is  struggle:  the  which  is  vain. 
For  by  our  bases  we're  firm  sunken-down 
In  the  element:  and  whenever  a  little  while 
Yearning  Illusion  flutters  up  the  sky, 
She  presently  swings  to  the  gasping  pitch, 
To  fall  bolt-like. 

I  say,  all  my  life  long  close  to  I've  stared 
Into  the  clay,  have  with  my  chisel  rasped 
The  marble  off  and  stroked  the  lovely  limbs, 
The  breasts  of  women  and  the  lips  of  boys 
In  stone.    Again,  into  the  mould  I've  poured 
The  wretched  desolation  of  my  dreams 
And  bruised  here  and  there  the  bronze.    All  this 
I  have  done  my  life  long,  and  not  so  much 
As  lifted  up  my  eyes. 

But  now  at  last 

I  pleasurably  look  to  either  side. 
For  I  would  paint  some  landscapes  ere  I  die, 
One  or  two  landscapes  of  the  view  you  see, 
The  squalid  plain  meandered  by  the  Seine. 
There,  when  there 's  moon,  thro'  fumes  of  gray  and  black 
The  silver  river  curls  away;  beyond 


It's  night  and  vapid  darkness  infinite. 

And  sitting  at  this  window,  I  suppose 

A  pallet  on  my  thumb,  and  brushes  and 

The  colours  gently  mixing  with  their  oil :  — 

Leaving  my  marbles  in  imagination 

For  final  solace  in  a  softer  art. 

You,  painter,  have  enjoyed  with  all  your  self; 

You've  little  looked  into  the  dark.    But  I 

Forged  in  the  night.    It's  resting-time,  I'm  old. 

Landscape  will  ease  me  somewhat  toward  the  end. 

[1900] 


ERIDE 


[50] 


DULL  words  that  swim  upon  the  page 
Thro'  filmy  tears  of  joy  and  pain! 
Poor  silly  words,  my  only  gage! 
Mere  words,  recurrent  as  refrain! 

Ye  prove  me  language  less  than  nought 
And  all  the  loss  of  utterance. 
Ye  give  me  scraps  of  withered  thought 
And  sounds  that  meet  as  by  a  chance. 

If  I  should  find  ye  once  again, 
If  you  should  come  again  to  me, 
Dull  words  about  my  joy  and  pain, 
Mere  words,  what  would  ye  signify  ? 


[51] 

ERIDE 

i 

LOVE,  I  marvel  what  you  are! 
Heaven  in  a  pearl  of  dew, 
Lilies  hearted  with  a  star  — 
All  are  you. 

Spring  along  your  forehead  shines 
And  the  summer  blooms  your  breast. 
Graces  of  autumnal  vines 
Round  you  rest. 

Birds  about  a  limpid  rose 
Making  song  and  light  of  wing 
While  the  warm  wind  sunny  blows,  — 
So  you  sing. 

Darling,  if  the  little  dust, 
That  I  know  is  merely  I, 
Have  availed  to  win  your  trust, 
Let  me  die. 


Brown  eyes  I  say,  yet  say  I  blue. 
I  think  her  mouth  is  a  melody, 
Her  bosom  a  petal  sunned  and  new; 
Her  hand  is  a  passing  sigh. 


[52] 

Blue  eyes  I  say,  yet  somehow  brown. 
Her  mouth  is  the  verge  of  all  repose; 
Her  breast  a  smoothed-out  viol  tone; 
Her  hand  is  an  early  rose. 

Be  her  eyes  of  blue  or  brown  indeed, 
Be  colour  or  music  what  she  is, 
I  nothing  know.    But  my  life's  own  need 
Is  the  fancy  of  her  kiss. 


Clouds  thro'  the  heaven  flit 

Aprilward. 

There's  the  bud  of  a  violet 

On  the  sward. 

Branch  and  breeze  sympathize 

Ere  they  play,  — 

I  know  that  it 's  Spring  to-day 

By  your  eyes. 

How  shall  I  hold  you  fast 

Now  you  are  here  ? 

A  tremor,  and  you  have  passed. 

And  this  year 

Only  of  all  is  ours 

Only  is  mine !  — 

I  see  in  your  blue  eyes  shine 

All  the  year's  flowers. 


[53] 

Hereafter  I'll  call  you  Spring, 

Little  girl! 

And  christen  each  clustering 

Delicate  curl 

Some  lovely  meadow's  name 

In  the  South, 

Where  they  say  that  music  and  youth 

Stay  the  same. 


I  held  these  tulips  first,  before 

Bringing  you  them. 

I  passed  the  love  I  bear  you  o'er 

Flower  and  stem. 

And  I  would  leave  them  at  your  door,  — 

If  at  your  heart's  door  they  might  stand! 

Keeping  awhile 

The  world  behind  their  petals  and 

Crimson  smile,  — 

Like  seas  hid  by  a  meadow-land. 


A  trill  of  leaves  is  in  the  wold; 
I  feel  the  wings  of  summer  pass, 
And  sunlight  in  big  drops  of  gold 
Falls  on  the  seedy  feathered  grass. 


[54] 

Some  tiny  cuckoo  never  seen 
Blows  his  own  echo  mild  as  mist. 
A  deer  there,  stirring  in  the  green ! 
A  squirrel,  where  the  branches  kissed. 

Far  through,  a  sweep  of  aspen-boughs 
And  birches  whitening  tow'rd  the  crest 
Reclines,  like  river-grass,  and  flows 
Along  the  summer  to  the  West, 

Farther  away,  till  last  of  all 

In  milky  hazes  lying  furled 

Is  —  nothing  more.    'T  is  we  recall 

Infinity  back  to  the  world. 


In  the  bow-window  that  looks  out 

Over  the  sunset-coloured  bay 

We  sat  one  evening,  wondering  and  in  doubt. 

The  water  plashing  on  the  quay 

Roused  the  warm  air,  and  half -awake 

One  hill  we  knew  was  changing  golden-gray. 

We  strained  our  sight  upon  the  lake; 

We  dared  not  anything  to  say, 

For  fear  your  heart  and  mine  might  haply  break. 


[55] 

Our  tired  eyes  soon  filled  with  tears, 

And  we  said  nothing.    But  your  hand 

Was  like  a  heart  that  understands  and  hears. 

[1896] 


We  missed  the  sunset,  love,  to-night  — 
The  sunset  on  the  sea  that  sings, 
Folding  about  its  heart  of  light 
The  large  and  melancholy  wings. 

A  snowy  gull  may  Ve  moved  along 
The  rose  and  gray  and  violet  bands, 
Serene  as  thought  and  pure  as  song, 
Beyond  our  line  of  open  sands; 

A  moonbeam  on  the  fisher  net, 
A  sail  that  lay  upon  the  sea, 
A  rim  of  pebbles  darkly  wet: 
It  all  was  not  for  you  and  me. 

A  sunset  lost,  a  life  foregone! 
Beauty  that  asked  our  heart  and  died! 
What  said  we  ?   did  we  match  the  Sun 
With  aught  of  Heart,  my  love  ?  —  My  bride, 

One  look  you  gave  was  twice  a  sky. 
I  kissed  your  hand,  you  said  a  word 


[56] 

That  greater  is  for  melody 

Than  all  the  tides  a  coast-land  heard. 

One  sunset  lost,  one  look  the  more!  — 
The  night  is  quieting  the  foam. 
Hear  you  ?    "  Come,"  says  the  endless  shore, 
And  all  the  waves  in  murmur,  "  Come." 


He  rests  upon  her  knee  his  tired  head; 
His  eye,  long  worried,  sleeps; 
And  she,  whose  perfect  love  has  nothing  said, 
Her  hand  upon  his  forehead  keeps. 

Thro'  darkening  windows  blows  the  ancient  spring; 

A  planet  trembles,  kind. 

Her  large  wet  eyes  are  vastly  wondering, 

Her  happy  love  resembles  wind. 

The  breeze  about  her  finger  stirs  his  hair, 
And  her  breath  rises,  falls. 
So  their  unfolding  presence  thro*  the  air 
In  soft  and  low  surprises  calls. 

He  touches  her  in  dream  and  follows  her, 
For  nearness  of  her  fails. 
And  the  spring  night  of  green  and  gossamer 
Around  beloved  and  lover  pales. 


[57] 

II 

I  hear  you  singing  in  my  breast, 
I  hear  you  chanting  in  my  mind. 
Is  it  the  wind  ? 

I  feel  your  form  upon  my  eyes, 
I  feel  your  fingers  press  my  sight. 
Is  it  the  night  ? 

I  hear  the  little  noise  of  feet 

And  footsteps  come  and  come  again, 

Is  it  the  rain  ? 

And  all  alone  with  memory 

My  brain  grows  anxious  for  the  day. 

You're  long  away. 


"Will  you  look  down  once  more,  just  once? 
Down  to  the  ground  and  keep  your  veil 
Drawn  o'er  your  half-guessed  countenance 
And  smile  —  so  frail  ? 

"Thank  you!    For  I  have  had  a  friend 
Whose  image  came  most  vividly 
Upon  my  soul,  when  with  that  bend 
You  looked  from  me. 


[58] 

"  Gone  ?  Yes !  you  cannot  think  how  far, 
Beyond  the  uttermost  of  thought. 
She 's  grown,  as  far  things  do,  a  star 
In  heaven's  hand  caught. 

"But  stars,  you  know,  are  very  cold 
And  always  white.    They  never  bless 
Just  you,  and  in  the  night's  great  fold 
Grow  vague  and  less. 

"And  so  it's  sweet  to  feel  sometimes 

A  colour,  gesture,  sound  —  a  turn 

That  makes  the  heart  grow  dull  with  rhymes 

And  the  soul's  lips  burn. 

"Yes!  sometimes  fast  about  my  heart 
Something  troubles  me  that  I  knew; 
I  find  a  stranger  made  me  start, 
As  now  did  you. 

"  So  pray  don't  think  me  rude.    That  face  — 
For  the  mere  memory  I  would  die. 
You  've  warmed  my  life  with  your  —  her  grace. 
Good-night,  good-bye." 

[1896] 


If  you  should  lightly,  as  I  've  known  you,  come 
And  find  me  of  an  evening  crying  here 


[59] 

At  open  windows  of  a  changing  home, 
While  beyond  garden,  houses,  tree,  and  dome 
Fades  out  the  day  and  year; 

If  you  should  gently  touch  my  shoulder,  and 
Turning  I'd  see  as  with  a  sweet  surprise 
You  there,  above  me  and  about  me,  stand, 
While  the  warm  sunset  passed  a  lucid  hand 
Over  your  face  and  eyes; 

If  then  you  softly,  as  I  Ve  heard  you,  said 
That  all  was  well,  I  know  not  what  or  why, 
But  just  for  words'  sake  told  me;  while  your  head 
Moved  round,  you  passed  away;  and  in  your  stead 
An  autumn  night  came  by: 

Still  would  the  happiness  of  having  stood 
With  one  so  nearly  you  tho'  gone  so  soon, 
Bring  to  my  solitude  a  little  good, — 
As  one  who's  gladdened  in  a  midnight  wood 
For  having  seen  the  moon. 


Sometimes  you  seem  so  far  away, 
The  very  noise  of  thinking  lulls, 
And,  on  my  vision,  colour  dulls 
To  vapour  with  sick  wings  of  gray. 


[60] 

I  wander  out  of  Time  and  Mind. 
The  sense  of  my  own  life  is  lost. 
One  thought  goes  touching  like  a  ghost 
That  found  yet  knows  not  where  to  find. 

And  all  I  know  is  just  the  jar 
Of  chime  that  trembles  in  my  ear; 
And  all  I  ask  is  if  the  year 
Is  never  tired  as  others  are. 


You  charm  a  window  in  the  South, 
Your  brow  seen  by  the  golden  star; 
And  through  warm  dreams  the  gentle  war 
Of  thought  lures  laughter  to  your  mouth. 

The  wind  lulls  in  the  olive  grove 
And  all  becomes  a  vaporous  sigh  — 
Low  preludes  to  your  ecstasy 
Who  love  too  much  to  think  of  love.  — 

October  is  in  midnight  swound 
With  just  a  vague  gray  blot  for  moon, 
And  like  a  scum  the  rotting  brown 
Of  dead  leaves  drifts  along  the  ground; 

While  I  sit  waiting  for  a  time 

I  know  not  how,  and  marvel  forth 


[61] 

Upon  the  vastness  of  the  North, 
Till  marvel  mellows  into  rhyme. 


I  heard  a  dead  leaf  run.    It  crossed 

My  way.    For  dark  I  could  not  see. 

It  rattled  crisp  and  thin  with  frost 

Out  to  the  lea. 

My  steps  I  hast'ned,  I  was  lost 

For  all  the  grief  that  came  to  me. 

For  now  and  ever  thro'  the  host 

Of  sounds  that  blow  from  shrub  and  tree,  • 

A  little  echo  sharply  tossed,  — 

The  footstep  chills  me  of  her  ghost; 

And  knowing  naught  I  weep  most  drearily, 


[62] 

III 

There's  just  a  bit  of  twilight  yet, 
A  glossy  gray  that  floats  the  sea 
From  yonder,  where  the.  daylight  set, 
To  me. 

All  else  is  violet  growing  dark. 
Southward,  a  sorrow  breaks  the  sky. 
The  tide  in  languor  of  its  mark 
Is  high. 

And  old  night  thickens  on  the  strand. 
There  is  no  motion  but  the  wave's, 
Along  the  leagues  of  listening  sand 
That  raves. 

And  nothing  now.    The  lighthouse  lit. 
If  ships  there  be,  they're  far  from  coast. 
All's  safe.    But  something  infinite 
Is  lost. 


One  spot  where  every  day  declines 

In  a  last  red  ray 

From  the  circle  poised  on  a  hill  of  pines; 

One  knoll,  where  an  elm's  twist-branches  play 

With  the  air,  elate; 

And  below,  our  bench  of  a  battered  gray: 


[63] 

In  summer,  't  was  bright  —  when  the  sun  sets  late, 

Too  late  for  regret! 

And  the  winds  lie  down  somewhere  to  wait 

While  daylight  goes  and  gray  streaks  fret 

The  heaven's  blues 

And  round  the  mid-sky  night's  arms  are  met. 

But  we  went  to-day  and  the  long  sinews 

Of  our  elm  were  lame 

With  wind  that  ran  in  the  day's  lost  clues. 

Early  the  sun  set,  vague  and  tame. 

Thro'  gathering  mists 

The  rain  fell  chiding  us  why  we  came. 


A  drizzle  fills  the  autumn  day. 
The  sun  will  never  here  come  back, 
And  weeds  and  foliage  in  decay 
Lie  draggled  in  the  cart-wheel's  track. 

From  blackened  woods  along  the  plain 
A  vapour  passes  out,  a  sound 
Of  boughs  grown  weak  thro'  nights  of  rain, 
That  sink  and  shatter  on  the  ground. 

The  meadow  turf  is  all  a  swamp, 
There 's  nothing  left  of  summer.    Come. 


[64] 

The  air  turns  dark  and  deadly  damp. 
Come,  for  it 's  very  far  to  home. 


The  year  for  you  and  me 

Is  nearly  done. 

The  leaves  there,  two  or  three, 

Are  brown. 

Not  a  bird  sings. 

It  is  time  to  think  of  other  things. 

Your  secret  was  my  hope, 

Your  deeper  name; 

And  you  perhaps  did  ope 

The  same.  — 

Only  the  word 

For  being  spoke  yet  was  not  heard. 

And  as  a  leaf  that  knows 

It  cannot  meet 

Another  leaf  that  grows 

So  sweet, 

Hearing  it  call, 

Springs  in  the  autumn  wind,  to  fall: 

So  did  I  hoping  doubt, 
Till  thro'  the  dark 
Falling  away,  went  out 
The  spark,  — 


[65] 

Ever  to  be 

A  star  gone  down  below  the  sea. 


Not  that,  if  you  had  known  at  all, 
You  would  have  done  what  now  you  do. 
God  knows,  no  blame  shall  ever  fall 
Of  mine  on  you. 
I  only  marvel  that  it  all  be  true. 

They  say  that  love 's  a  mustard  seed 

Upon  the  acres  of  the  heart; 

It  spreads  from  one  part  like  a  weed 

To  another  part. 

Yet  Spring  is  single  and  the  days  depart. 

I  know  not  why,  but  so  it  is! 
That  pain  is  such  a  simple  thing. 
Here  to  your  hand  I  bring  my  kiss, 
And  yet  nothing 
Can  tell  you  nearly  what  it  is  I  bring. 

And  why  ?  —  It 's  hard  to  cipher  Fates 

And  Distances,  as  yours  from  me. 

Not  science  even  separates 

So  fixedly;  — 

And  then  we  tantalize  our  destiny! 


[66] 

Yes,  marvel  how  the  chances  cross 
And  weave  these  spider-webs  of  wire. 
Men  live  who  say  there 's  gain  in  loss ! 
And  yet  Desire 
Revives  like  ferns  on  a  November  fire. 

It  comes  to  only  a  memory. 

We  have  too  many  memories, 

And  somehow  I  believe  we  die 

Of  things  like  these, 

Loving  what  was  not,  might  not  be,  nor  is. 

[1896] 


Like  a  pearl  dropped  in  red  dark  wine, 
Your  pale  face  sank  within  my  heart, 
Not  to  be  mine,  yet  always  mine. 

Your  eyes,  like  flowers  from  apart 
Their  frail  and  shaded  gates  of  dream, 
Looked  all  a  meadow's  light  astart 

With  sunrise,  and  your  smile  did  seem 

As  when  below  a  letting  rain 

The  water-drops  with  sunset  gleam. 

I  thought  my  vision  was  not  vain; 

I  felt  my  cramped  heart  stir  and  move 

Which  now  is  pressed  with  little  pain. 


[67] 

I  dreamed  the  dream  one  wonders  of,  — 
Your  face  of  pearl,  so  pale  and  wise. 
I  saw,  and  murmured  "  Life  is  Love." 

The  dust  of  folly  filled  my  eyes. 
I  sang,  and  opened  in  your  name 
Crocuses  yellow  with  moonrise. 

I  played  with  shadows  at  their  game; 
The  meadow  thought  my  song  was  wind. 
I  called  the  sunrise  up:  it  came. 

Sweet  sun-warmed  grasses  did  I  bind 

In  fancies  of  your  hair.    My  song 

Was  you,  and  you  were  all  my  mind.  — 

The  charm,  the  splendour,  and  the  wrong 
Will  drive  you  thro'  the  earth,  to  try 
Of  you  and  pleasure  which  is  strong,  — 

While  I  remember.    Cry  on  cry 
My  autumn 's  gone.    A  horrid  blast 
Blows  out  my  sunset  from  the  sky. 

Nothing  is  left  and  all  is  past; 
Rain  settles  like  a  quiet  air. 
And  as  a  pearl  in  red  wine  cast 
Glows  like  a  drop  of  moonlight  there, 
Your  face  possesses  my  despair. 


[68] 

Receive  my  love;   I  ask  no  more. 
Receive,  I  have  no  more  to  give. 
The  heart  and  spirit  of  me  bore 
All  of  this  little  gift.    Receive! 

I  fancied  as  in  dream  I  passed 
My  arms  afraid  with  care  and  strove 
About  you,  to  have  gleaned  at  last 
Some  late  and  stilly  wished-for  love,  — 

No  more  the  wild  wide  flames  that  leap 
Out  of  a  moment  down  our  years, 
To  smoulder  in  endangering  sleep, 
To  glitter  under  tender  tears,  — 

But  something  dear  and  gradual 

Within  your  slowly  opening  soul: 

Your  nearly  love,  your  nearly  all 

Which  comes  with  years  to  be  the  very  whole. 


You  would  give  otherwise  and  more, 
Give  much  more  and  forget  you  gave,  — 
As  over-seas  in  summer  pour 
The  wide  blue  swinging  breadths  of  wave. 

Yes,  and  your  vision  of  desire 
Is  richer  than  the  sunrise  and 
Profounder  than  the  sea  and  higher 
Than  the  last  light  these  heavens  command. 


[69] 

You  suffer  thirst,  and  waiting  brood 
Impatiently  one  day  to  strain 
From  out  this  life  of  mood  and  food 
The  stuffs  of  ecstasy  and  pain :  — 

Till  squandering  in  royal  waste 
The  passion  of  your  youth  upon 
Some  pitiable  heart,  you  taste 
The  wines  and  fever  of  oblivion! 


I  know.  —  Your  dream  is  mine,  that  was. 

And  quickly  far  within  your  eyes 

All  of  my  life  began  to  pass 

And  wander  out  in  seas  and  skies. 

But  you,  whom  all  my  life  adored, 
While  I  go  following  in  your  way, 
Can  not  so  much  as  speak  the  word;  — 
For  there  be  lies  no  tongue  can  say. 

How  strange  it  is,  the  point  we  lack 
Just  to  possess  the  spirit's  own, 
And  failing  this,  to  tremble  back 
Among  unfinished  things  alone! 

Pass  by,  dear  heart,  —  and  take  from  me 

This  charm  for  which  a  diver  dove 

Of  old  down  the  unruined  sea,  — 

And  taking  mine,  give  to  another  thy  love. 


[70] 

IV 

No,  no,  't  is  very  much  too  late. 
I  thought  it  mockery  that  you  said 
You  loved  me;  but  a  certain  fate 
Lowers  your  voice  and  bows  your  head. 
I  tell  you,  you  desire  to  wake  the  dead. 

'T  is  pitiful  so  to  drag  out 

The  sorry  quarrel  in  our  souls, 

Till  even  the  blood  suspends  in  doubt 

And  each  full  impulse  backward  rolls. 

Meantime  the  hour  regardless  passing  tolls. 

Yes!  think  how  year  on  year  is  gone. 

You  went  your  way  and  hummed  your  dreams 

Of  passion  and  oblivion 

In  lands  where  terrible  sunbeams 

Shiver  upon  the  leaping  arch  of  streams. 

Your  heart  was  violent  and  you  stretched 
Tiptoe  after  the  stars  your  hand !  — 
'T  was  but  a  willow-bough  you  fetched. 
The  argosies  of  your  command 
Returned,  saying  beyond  there  was  no  land. 

You  cursed  the  woman's  life  for  lame. 
To  do!  you  cried,  and  labouring 
Like  men  bring  in  the  distant  aim !  — 


[71] 

What  was  this  aim  you  needs  must  bring, 
Your  one,  your  altogether  desired  thing  ? 

You  knew  not,  doubting  day  by  day. 

Like  yours  how  many  lives  are  lived! 

How  seldom  all  is  given  away, 

How  little  of  every  gift  received ! 

How  the  heart  most  of  all  is  least  believed! 

When  at  your  going  my  grief  was  new 

And  the  long  future  all  to  waste, 

I  said  farewell  to  more  than  you: 

I  wandered  up  into  the  Past 

And  wandering  have  imagined  peace  at  last. 

Still,  perhaps,  under  leaves  that  lie 

You'd  feel  the  roots  of  sorrow  end 

Here  in  my  bosom  dyingly: 

Mere  threads  they  are,  too  frail  to  tend! 

I've  done  with  my  own  living,  O  my  friend! 

For  what  were  gained  if  I  were  yours  ? 
Fever  and  frenzy  of  the  blood, 
The  pleasure  which  no  surfeit  cures, 
Endless  desire,  hunger,  feud  — 
And,  at  the  end  of  passion,  solitude.  — 

You  know  how,  born  by  a  small  hearth, 
While  out  in  the  sad  dark  it  snows 


[72] 

And  't  is  for  months  an  unseen  earth, 

The  soul  as  by  remembrance  goes 

After  the  warm  vineyard  and  burning  rose, 

To  live  long  years  by  stream  and  hill 
Within  the  southern  light,  with  men 
Who  speak  delicious  language :  —  till 
The  pain  of  being  alien 
Urges  one  elsewhere  yet  not  home  again. 

So  are  our  lives.    I  love  you  more. 

But  other  hearts  by  destiny 

Must  needs  possess  what  they  adore 

And  have  it,  to  live  with  and  to  die, 

To  strangle  or  soothe  with  kisses.    Not  so  I. 

By  silences  within  a  dream 

And  bird-songs  of  a  spring  sunrise, 

To  the  onward  measure  of  a  stream 

Nearer  the  sea  where  quiet  is, 

I  love  you  more,  much  more,  but  otherwise. 


If  I  have  wronged  you  in  the  days 
Bygone  but  unforgotten  now, 
I  make  no  pleading  for  your  grace. 
My  tongue  is  bitter.    Leave  me,  go. 


[73] 

You  have  no  pity,  none.    You  live 
Impatient  and  unreconciled. 
Nay,  were  you  a  mother,  I  believe 
You  never  could  well  love  your  child. 

You've  cracked  the  sense  of  life  and  death 
With  passions  in  you  that  despise 
The  thing  you  love  and  choke  its  breath, 
Till  unrecriminate  it  dies,  — 

It  dies  to  you;  and  nothing  then, 
Nor  art  nor  hope  nor  force  nor  spell 
Can  worry  back  the  lost  again,  — 
Lost,  lost,  and  irrecoverable. 


And  then,  God  knows,  some  things  there  be 
Where  never  pardon  yet  was  known: 
What  words  have  leapt  from  you  to  me! 
Enough,  henceforward  I  'm  my  own. 

Yes,  men  are  selfish  —  Tell  me,  you 
Who  pluck  my  thoughts  for  flying  fast, 
Ask  all  the  years  to  be,  and  rue 
The  unalterably  separate  past, 

What  is  this  that  is  generous? 
Can  just  a  word  we  used  to  know 


[74] 

In  childhood,  commonly,  to  us 
Have  grown  a  vulgar  riddle  so  ? 

Sometimes  I  think  we  never  met, 
Such  immense  walls  of  iron  and  ice 
Between  us  infinitely  set 
Spring  blind  into  the  spirit's  skies. 

Sometimes  I  think  we  never  met,  — 
'T  had  surely  better  been,  to  spare 
This  nervous  wringing  of  regret, 
This  hope  that  tightens  to  despair. 

We  have  not  understood,  for  all 
We  deeply  lived  and  clearly  said. 
And  without  knowledge  love  must  fall, 
Like  this  of  ours,  that  lying  dead 

Clamours  for  burial.    It  is  time, 
It  was  time  in  much  earlier  days, 
Before  we  soiled  our  lips  with  crime, 
That  you  and  I  went  our  two  ways. 


[75] 


Now  in  the  palace  gardens  warm  with  age, 
On  lawn  and  flower-bed  this  afternoon 
The  thin  November-coloured  foliage 
Just  as  last  year  unfastens  lilting  down, 

And  round  the  terrace  in  gray  attitude 
The  very  statues  are  becoming  sere 
With  long  presentiment  of  solitude. 
Most  of  the  life  that  I  have  lived  is  here, 

Here  by  the  path  and  autumn's  earthy  grass 
And  chestnuts  standing  down  the  breadths  of  sky 
Indeed  I  know  not  how  it  came  to  pass, 
The  life  I  lived  here  so  unhappily. 

Yet  blessing  over  all!   I  do  not  care 
What  wormwood  I  have  ate  to  cups  of  gall; 
I  care  not  what  despairs  are  buried  there 
Under  the  ground,  no,  I  care  not  at  all. 

Nay,  if  the  heart  have  beaten,  let  it  break! 
I  have  not  loved  and  lived  but  only  this 
Betwixt  my  birth  and  grave.    Dear  Spirit,  take 
The  gratitude  that  pains,  so  deep  it  is. 

When  Spring  shall  be  again,  and  at  your  door 
You  stand  to  feel  the  mellower  evening  wind, 


[76] 

Remember  if  you  will  my  heart  is  pure, 
Perfectly  pure  and  altogether  kind; 

That  not  an  aftercry  of  all  our  strife 
Troubles  the  love  I  give  you  and  the  faith: 
Say  to  yourself  that  at  the  ends  of  life 
My  arms  are  open  to  you,  life  and  death. — 

How  much  it  aches  to  linger  in  these  things! 
I  thought  the  perfect  end  of  love  was  peace 
Over  the  long-forgiven  sufferings. 
But  something  else,  I  know  not  what  it  is, 

The  words  that  came  so  nearly  and  then  not, 
The  vanity,  the  error  of  the  whole, 
The  strong  cross-purpose,  oh,  I  know  not  what 
Cries  dreadfully  in  the  distracted  soul. 

The  evening  fills  the  garden,  hardly  red; 

And  autumn  goes  away,  like  one  alone. 

Would  I  were  with  the  leaves  that  thread  by  thread 

Soften  to  soil,  I  would  that  I  were  one. 


SONNETS 


[79] 

SONNETS 

You  say,  Columbus  with  his  argosies 

Who  rash  and  greedy  took  the  screaming  main 

And  vanished  out  before  the  hurricane 

Into  the  sunset  after  merchandise, 

Then  under  western  palms  with  simple  eyes 

Trafficked  and  robbed  and  triumphed  home  again 

You  say  this  is  the  glory  of  the  brain 

And  human  life  no  other  use  than  this  ? 

I  then  do  answering  say  to  you:   The  line 

Of  wizards  and  of  saviours,  keeping  trust 

In  that  which  made  them  pensive  and  divine, 

Passes  before  us  like  a  cloud  of  dust. 

What  were  they  ?   Actors,  ill  and  mad  with  wine, 

And  all  their  language  babble  and  disgust. 


[80] 


THEY  say  that  Cleopatra  who  of  yore 
Received  the  moon  on  her  dishevelled  hair, 
Looking  into  his  eyes,  and  breathed  the  fair 
Low  wind  along  Mediterranean's  shore 
When  Summer  swelled  the  stars,  —  Now  at  her  door 
The  wanderer  sees  her  like  a  jewel  flare, 
And  drawn  by  passion  thro'  the  beating  air 
To  her,  he  falls,  her  dagger  at  the  core. 
Through  rifts  of  scudding  shadow,  while  his  trance 
Blackens  in  death,  he  feels  about  him  lean 
Her  olive  breasts  and  arms,  and  in  her  glance 
Great  wings  of  fire  and  midnight  closing  in: 
His  wasting  arms  do  make  a  vain  advance. 
So  I  unto  the  life  I  would  have  been. 
[1898] 


[81] 


THEY  lived  enamoured  of  the  lovely  moon, 
The  dawn  and  twilight  on  their  gentle  lake. 
Then  Passion  marvellously  born  did  shake 
Their  breasts  and  drave  them  into  the  mid-noon. 
Their  lives  did  shrink  to  one  desire,  and  soon 
They  rose  fire-eyed  to  follow  in  the  wake 
Of  one  eternal  thought,  —  when  sudden  brake 
Their  hearts.    They  died,  in  miserable  swoon. 
Of  all  their  agony  not  a  sound  was  heard. 
The  glory  of  the  Earth  is  more  than  they. 
She  asks  her  lovely  image  of  the  day: 
A  flower  grows,  a  million  boughs  are  green, 
And  over  moving  ocean-waves  the  bird 
Chases  his  shadow  and  is  no  more  seen 

[1898] 


[82] 

ON  RODIN'S  "L'ILLUSION,  SCEUR  D'ICARE" 

SHE  started  up  from  where  the  lizard  lies 

Among  the  grasses'  dewy  hair,  and  flew 

Thro*  leagues  of  lower  air  until  the  blue 

Was  thin  and  pale  and  fair  as  Echo  is. 

Crying  she  made  her  upward  flight.    Her  cries 

Were  naught,  and  naught  made  answer  to  her  view. 

The  air  lay  in  the  light  and  slowly  grew 

A  marvel  of  white  void  in  her  eyes. 

She  cried:  her  throat  was  dead.    Deliriously 

She  looked,  and  lo!   the  Sun  in  master  mirth 

Glowed  sharp,  huge,  cruel.   Then  brake  her  noble  eye. 

She  fell,  her  white  wings  rocking  down  the  abyss, 

A  ghost  of  ecstasy,  backward  to  earth, 

And  shattered  all  her  beauty  in  a  kiss. 

[1898] 


[83] 


MY  friend,  who  in  this  March  unkind,  uncouth, 
Biding  the  full-blown  Summer  and  the  skies 
That  change  not,  stayest  unmoved  and  true  and  wise 
That  in  thy  love  thou  lovest  not  me  but  Truth, 
What  should  we  fear  that  Age  corrode  with  ruth 
Our  loves,  who  love  the  thing  that  never  dies, 
Building  us  archways  unto  Paradise 
Of  all  that  greets  the  soul's  all-flowering  youth  ? 
So  is  it,  that  often  parted,  rarely  met, 
And  never  blessed  with  gifts  of  genial  Time 
Wherein  might  grow  the  seed  we  have  but  sown, 
Our  hearts  remember  tho*  our  minds  forget 
How  on  from  year  to  year  and  clime  to  clime 
Stretches  the  love  that  makes  of  all  but  one. 

[1894] 


[84] 


II 


YOUR  image  walks  not  in  my  common  way. 
Rarely  I  conjure  up  your  face,  recall 
Your  language,  think  to  hear  your  footstep  fall 
In  my  lost  home  or  see  your  eyes'  sweet  play. 
Rather  you  share  the  life  that  sees  not  day, 
Immured  within  the  spirit's  deep  control, 
Where  thro'  the  tideless  quiets  of  the  soul 
Your  kingdom  stretches  far  and  far  away. 
For  these  our  joys  and  griefs  are  less  than  we. 
The  deeper  truths  ask  not  our  daily  thought  — 
Their  strength  is  peace,  they  know  that  we  believe. 
And  whatsoever  of  sublime  there  be 
Reaches  and  deepens  and  at  last  is  wrought 
Into  that  life  we  are  but  do  not  live. 

[1894] 


[85] 

III 

WERE  you  called  home  and  I  were  left  to  grief, 
I'd  not  go  down  disconsolate  to  the  shore 
And  brooding  mix  my  language  in  the  roar 
Of  waves  in  spasm  upon  the  tortured  reef; 
Nor  climb  the  lonely  mountain  where  the  leaf 
Sings  its  wide  whisper  and  the  ravens  soar 
From  shadows  of  unholy  ellebore 
Loved  by  the  owlets,  blind  and  dull  and  deaf. 
I  should  not  loudly  mourn  and  vex  the  earth 
With  strewings  of  my  ashes;   none  would  find 
My  reft  soul's  sorrow  in  the  gushing  eye. 
But  my  dull  world  would  be  a  world  of  dearth, 
Cheerless  the  sunrise,  the  sweet  sky  unkind 
And  life  grayer,  my  heart  not  asking  why. 
[1894] 


[86 


IN     A     CHURCHYARD 

How  strange,  beneath  the  blue  and  happy  sky 

And  the  reviving  greenery  of  the  trees 

So  pale  their  shadow  blows  along  the  breeze, 

To  read  on  polished  graves  the  little  cry 

Of  this  delirious  immortality! 

Well  was  it  said  for  all,  for  each  of  these 

"  The  poor  in  heart,"  who  still  in  death  displease 

The  flowers  and  wind  and  youth  that  passes  by. 

How  but  for  them  the  children  of  the  earth 

Here,  where  the  grass  is  fresh  and  glittering, 

Would  share  with  herb  and  beast  the  common  birth ! 

And  when  they  'd  played  away  this  day  of  Spring 

How  sweetly  would  they  fold  at  evening 

Their  petals,  hands,  and  wings  at  nature's  hearth. 


[87] 


WHEN  I  hereafter  shall  recover  thee 

And,  on  the  further  margin  fugitive 

Silently  bringing  up,  if  aught  survive 

The  raging  wind  and  old  disastrous  sea, 

I  disembark,  O  darling,  verily 

To  hold  thee  to  my  heart,  to  feel  alive 

The  tremor  of  thy  lips,  thy  bosom,  —  it  will  drive 

The  dark  in  shreds  out  of  eternity. 

Sometimes  I  ask  me  why  the  morning  sun 

Returns,  or  later,  when  the  day  is  done, 

I  let  the  dreams  about  my  pillow  strain; 

But  then  it  sounds  across  my  dying  brain 

Like  torrents  in  the  moonlight  foaming  on 

Between  enormous  mountains  to  the  plain. 


THO'  inland  far  with  mountains  prisoned  round, 
Oppressed  beneath  a  space  of  heavy  skies, 
Yet  hear  I  oft  the  far-off  water-cries 
And  vague  vast  voices  which  the  winds  confound. 
While  as  a  harp  I  sing,  touched  with  the  sound 
Most  secret  to  its  soul,  the  visions  rise 
In  stately  dream,  and  lifting  up  my  eyes 
I  see  the  naked  mountains  beacon-crowned. 
Far  in  the  heaven  the  golden  moon  illumes, 
The  crowded  stars  toil  in  the  webs  of  night 
And  the  sharp  meteors  seam  the  higher  glooms. 
Then  shifts  my  dream:   the  mellow  evening  falls; 
Alone  upon  the  shore  in  the  wet  light 
I  stand,  and  hear  the  infinite  sea  that  calls. 
[1894] 


[89] 

ON    SOME    SHELLS    FOUND    INLAND 

THESE  are  my  murmur-laden  shells  that  keep 
A  fresh  voice  tho'  the  years  be  very  gray. 
The  wave  that  washed  their  lips  and  tuned  their  lay 
Is  gone,  gone  with  the  faded  ocean  sweep, 
The  royal  tide,  gray  ebb  and  sunken  neap 
And  purple  midday,  —  gone !    To  this  hot  clay 
Must  sing  my  shells,  where  yet  the  primal  day, 
Its  roar  and  rhythm  and  splendour  will  not  sleep. 
What  hand  shall  join  them  to  their  proper  sea 
If  all  be  gone  ?    Shall  they  forever  feel 
Glories  undone  and  worlds  that  cannot  be  ?  — 
'T  were  mercy  to  stamp  out  this  aged  wrong, 
Dash  them  to  earth  and  crunch  them  with  the  heel 
And  make  a  dust  of  their  seraphic  song. 

[1895] 


[90] 


THO'  lack  of  laurels  and  of  wreaths  not  one 
Prove  you  our  lives  abortive,  shall  we  yet 
Vaunt  us  our  single  aim,  our  hearts  full  set 
To  win  the  guerdon  which  is  never  won. 
Witness,  a  purpose  never  is  undone. 
And  tho'  fate  drain  our  seas  of  violet 
To  gather  round  our  lives  her  wide-hung  net, 
Memories  of  hopes  that  are  not  shall  atone. 
Not  wholly  starless  is  the  ill-starred  life, 
Not  all  is  night  in  failure,  and  the  shield 
Sometimes  well  grasped,  tho'  shattered  in  the  strife. 
And  here  while  all  the  lowering  heaven  is  ringed 
With  our  loud  death-shouts  echoed,  on  the  field 
Stands  forth  our  Nike,  proud,  tho'  broken- winged. 


[91] 


LIVE  blindly  and  upon  the  hour.    The  Lord, 
Who  was  the  Future,  died  full  long  ago. 
Knowledge  which  is  the  Past  is  folly.    Go, 
Poor  child,  and  be  not  to  thyself  abhorred. 
Around  thine  earth  sun-winged  winds  do  blow 
And  planets  roll;   a  meteor  draws  his  sword; 
The  rainbow  breaks  his  seven-coloured  chord 
And  the  long  strips  of  river-silver  flow: 
Awake!   Give  thyself  to  the  lovely  hours. 
Drinking  their  lips,  catch  thou  the  dream  in  flight 
About  their  fragile  hairs'  aerial  gold. 
Thou  art  divine,  thou  livest,  —  as  of  old 
Apollo  springing  naked  to  the  light, 
And  all  his  island  shivered  into  flowers. 

[1898] 


[92] 


BE  still.    The  Hanging  Gardens  were  a  dream 

That  over  Persian  roses  flew  to  kiss 

The  curled  lashes  of  Semiramis. 

Troy  never  was,  nor  green  Skamander  stream. 

Provence  and  Troubadour  are  merest  lies 

The  glorious  hair  of  Venice  was  a  beam 

Made  within  Titian's  eye.    The  sunsets  seem, 

The  world  is  very  old  and  nothing  is. 

Be  still.    Thou  foolish  thing,  thou  canst  not  wake, 

Nor  thy  tears  wedge  thy  soldered  lids  apart, 

But  patter  in  the  darkness  of  thy  heart. 

Thy  brain  is  plagued.    Thou  art  a  frighted  owl 

Blind  with  the  light  of  life  thou  'Idst  not  forsake, 

And  Error  loves  and  nourishes  thy  soul. 

[1898] 


[93] 

ON    THE    CONCERT 

WHEN  first  this  canvas  felt  Giorgione's  hand, 

From  out  his  soul's  intensity  he  drew 

In  lines  most  acrid  yet  superbly  few 

A  man,  —  a  soul,  whose  water  at  command 

Of  pain  had  stiffened  to  ice,  whom  grief  had  banned, 

Till  music  even  and  harmony's  rich  dew 

Fell  fruitless.    Poised,  defiant  and  calm  he  threw 

To  the  earth  that  wronged  him  his  life's  reprimand. 

Yet,  as  he  drew,  a  wind  mellow  with  dole 

Of  past  life  as  of  sea-coast  pine  did  rise 

And  warm  the  rigour  of  the  painter's  soul. 

For  his  tear-moistened  fingers  warmed  the  frore 

Hard  colours  of  the  cheek,  and  in  the  eyes 

Set  the  large  stare  of  Sorrow's  Nevermore. 

[1895] 


[94] 


THE  melancholy  year  is  dead  with  rain. 

Drop  after  drop  on  every  branch  pursues. 

From  far  away  beyond  the  drizzled  flues 

A  twilight  saddens  to  the  window  pane. 

And  dimly  thro'  the  chambers  of  the  brain, 

From  place  to  place  and  gently  touching,  moves 

My  one  and  irrecoverable  love's 

Dear  and  lost  shape  one  other  time  again. 

So  in  the  last  of  autumn  for  a  day 

Summer  or  summer's  memory  returns. 

So  in  a  mountain  desolation  burns 

Some  rich  belated  flower,  and  with  the  gray 

Sick  weather,  in  the  world  of  rotting  ferns 

From  out  the  dreadful  stones  it  dies  away. 


[95] 


As  a  sad  man,  when  evenings  grayer  grow, 
Desires  his  violin,  and  call  to  call 
Tunes  with  unhappy  heart  the  interval; 
Then  after  prelude,  suffering  his  bow, 
Along  the  crying  strings  his  fingers  fall 
To  some  persuasion  born  of  long  ago, 
While  mixed  in  higher  melodies  the  low 
Dull  song  of  his  life 's  heard  no  more  at  all 
So  with  thy  picture  I  alone  devise, 
Passing  on  thy  uncoloured  face  the  tone 
Of  memory's  autumnal  paradise; 
And  all  myself  for  yearning  weary  lies 
Fallen  to  but  thy  shadow,  near  upon 
The  void  motion  of  eternities. 


[96] 


HE  said :   "  If  in  his  image  I  was  made, 

I  am  his  equal  and  across  the  land 

We  two  should  make  our  journey  hand  in  hand 

Like  brothers  dignified  and  unafraid." 

And  God  that  day  was  walking  in  the  shade. 

To  whom  he  said:   "The  world  is  idly  planned, 

We  cross  each  other,  let  us  understand 

Thou  who  thou  art,  I  who  I  am,"  he  said. 

Darkness  came  down.  And  all  that  night  was  heard 

Tremendous  clamour  and  the  broken  roar 

Of  things  in  turmoil  driven  down  before. 

Then  silence.    Morning  broke,  and  sang  a  bird. 

He  lay  upon  the  earth,  his  bosom  stirred; 

But  God  was  seen  no  longer  any  more. 


LAKEWARD 


LAKEWARD 

'T  WILL  soon  be  sunrise.    Down  the  valley  waiting 
Far  over  slope  and  mountain-height  the  firs 
Undulate  dull  and  furry  under  the  beating 
Heaven  of  autumn  stars. 

To  westward  yet  the  summits  hang  in  slumber 
Like  frozen  smoke;  there,  growing  wheel  on  wheel, 
As  't  were  an  upward  wind  of  rose  and  amber 
Goes  up  the  sky  of  steel; 

And  indistinguishable  thro'  the  valley 
An  endless  murmur  freshens  as  of  bees, — 
The  stream  that  gathering  torrents  frantically 
Churns  away  thro*  the  trees.  — 

Mountains,  farewell!   Into  your  crystal  winter 
To  linger  on  unworlded  and  alone 
And  feel  the  glaciers  of  your  bosom  enter 
One  and  another  my  own, 

And  on  the  snow  that  falling  edges  nearer 
To  lose  my  very  shade,  —  't  were  well,  't  were  done 
Had  I  not  in  me  the  soul  of  a  wayfarer! 
No,  let  me  wander  down 

The  road  that,  as  the  boulders  higher  and  higher 
Go  narrower  each  to  each  and  hold  the  gloom, 
Follows  like  me  the  waters'  loud  desire 
Of  a  sun-sweetened  home. 


And  as  I  pass,  methinks  once  more  the  Titan 
From  in  the  bosom  of  the  humid  rocks, 
Where  yet  his  aged  eyes  grow  vague  and  whiten 
Weary  and  wet  his  locks, 

Gazes  away  upon  this  brightened  weather 
As  asking  it  in  reason  and  in  rhyme 
How  long  shall  mountain  iron  and  ice  together 
Hold  against  summer-time. 

Long,  surely!  long,  perhaps!  but  not  for  ever. 
Now  here  across  the  buried  road  and  field, 
Torn  from  the  dizzy  flanks  up  there  that  quiver, 
Down  to  the  plain  and  spilled 

In  sand  and  wreckage  lies  the  avalanche's 
Dead  mass  under  the  sun,  and  not  a  sound !  — 
The  morning  grows  and  from  the  rich  pine-branches 
Shadows  make  blue  the  ground. 

To  wander  south!    Already  here  the  grasses 
Feather  and  glint  across  the  sunny  air. 
It's  warmer.    Up  the  road  a  peasant  passes 
Brown-skinned  and  dark  of  hair. 

Some  of  an  autumn  glamour  on  the  highway 
Softens  the  dust,  and  yonder  I  have  seen 
Catching  the  sunlight  something  in  the  byway 
Else  than  an  evergreen, 


And  weeds  along  the  ditch  are  parching.  —  Sudden 
Once  more  from  either  side  the  ranges  draw 
Near  each  to  each;  beneath  struggle  and  madden 
Down  in  the  foamy  flaw 

The  waters,  and,  a  span  across,  the  boulders 
Stand  to  the  burning  heaven  upright  and  cold. 
Then  drawing  lengthily  along  their  shoulders 
Vapours  of  white  and  gold 

Blow  from  the  lowland  upward;  all  the  gloaming 
Quivers  with  violet;  here  in  the  wedge 
The  tunnelled  road  goes  narrow  and  outcoming 
Stealthily  on  the  edge 

Lies  free.    The  outlines  have  a  gentle  meaning. 
Willows  and  clematis,  foliage  and  grain! 
And  the  last  mountain  falls  in  terraces  to  the  greening 
Infinite  autumn  plain. 

O  further  southward,  down  the  brooks  and  valley,  on 
And  past  the  lazy  farms  and  orchards,  on! 
It  smells  of  hay,  and  thro5  the  long  Italian 
Flowerful  afternoon. 

Sodden  with  sunlight,  green  and  gold,  the  country 
Suspends  her  fruit  and  stretches  ripe  and  still 
Between  the  clumsy  fig  and  silver  plane-tree 
Circled,  from  hill  to  hill 


And  down  the  vale  along  the  running  river: 
The  vale,  the  river  and  the  hills,  that  take 
The  perfect  south  and  here  at  last  for  ever 
Merge  into  thee,  O  Lake !  — 

Sunset-enamoured  in  the  autumnal  hours! 
When  large  and  westering  his  heavy  rays 
Fall  from  the  vineyards  and  the  garden-flowers 
Hazily  o'er  thy  face, 

And  colouring  thy  bosom  with  a  lover's 
Warm  and  quick  lips  and  hesitating  hand, 
He  murmurs  to  thee  while  the  twilight  hovers 
Lilac  about  the  strand, 

Thou,  mid  the  grape-hung  terraces  low-levelled, 
Lookest  into  the  green  and  crimson  sky 
With  swimming  eyes  and  auburn  hair  dishevelled, 
Radiant  in  ecstasy. — 

'T  is  evening.  In  the  open  blueness  stretches 
A  feathery  lawn  of  light  from  moon  to  shore, 
And  a  boat-load  of  labourers  homeward  plashes, 

Singing  "Amor,  Amor." 
[1900] 


PROMETHEUS     PYRPHOROS 

[1900] 


TO   E.  F. 


AT  the  risk  of  obtruding  alien  matter  upon  the  reader's 
attention,  I  wish  to  point  out  that  the  following  poem  ante 
dates  by  several  years  my  own  treatment  of  the  same  sub 
ject,  entitled  The  Fire  Bringer,  the  Prometheus  Pyrphoros 
having  first  appeared  in  the  Harvard  Monthly  for  November, 
1900.  Before  the  publication  of  my  poem  I  asked  Stickney's 
permission  to  preface  it  with  an  acknowledgment  of  his 
priority  in  the  use  of  the  material  and  of  my  deep  obligation 
to  his  work.  At  his  urgent  request  such  acknowledgment 
was  omitted  at  that  time,  but  is  now  made  in  order  that 
no  misconception  may  arise,  in  the  mind  of  any  reader  to 
whom  both  poems  may  be  known,  regarding  their  relation 
to  each  other  in  point  of  pioneership.  Those  who  are  curi 
ous  to  examine  the  sources  of  the  Prometheus  Pyrphoros 
will  find  them  in  the  account  given  by  Hesiod,  supplemented 
in  some  details  by  that  of  the  mythographer  Apollodorus. 

W.  V.  M. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 
PANDORA  PYRRHA 

PROMETHEUS  EPIMETHEUS 

DEUKALION  THE   VOICES   OF  ZEUS 


[107] 

PROMETHEUS   PYRPHOROS 

SCENE.  The  plain  of  Haimonla.  In  the  centre,  a  rude 
stone  dwelling,  in  the  door  of  which  stands  PROMETHEUS. 
The  voice  of  PANDORA  always  as  from  within.  Total 
obscurity,  nothing  on  the  scene  being  distinguishable. 

DEUKALION  \crawling  iri\. 
How  dark  it  is,  how  dark  and  miserable! 

PYRRHA.  Is 't  thou,  Deukalion  ? 

DEU.  Ah,  thy  voice!    It's  I. 

My  moment's  journey  seems  a  dreadful  year. 
I  see  nothing  —  Where  ?   where  ?   is  home  here  ? 

PYR.  Yes. 

Thou  soundest  surely  nearer.    How  — 

DEU.  At  last. 

O  woman,  what  is  this  that  makes  us  be, 
Threading  like  worms  the  cavern  where  before  — 

PYR.  Shows  there  as  yet  no  daylight  ? 

DEU.  No,  nowhere. 

This  dark  can  never  lift,  this  heavy  night 
Which  lies  and  stagnates  infinitely.    No, 
It  cannot  lift,  I  know  not  when  it  fell; 
Scarce  I  remember  how  seemed  the  white  sunlight, 
So  debile  is  my  memory  and  the  brain 
Clean  hollowed  out. 

PYR.  All  round  me  and  within 

It  is  like  pools  of  cold.    But  firewood  —  say, 
Bring'st  thou  any  ? 


DEU.  Aye,  but  prithee  to  what  end  ? 

I  crawled  abroad  the  fields  there  picking  up 
Some  herbs  to  eat,  and  fuel;  but  this  I  know, 
The  tinder  holds  no  longer  any  spark 
And  fire  is  vanished  irrecoverably. 

PYK.  Nay,  try  once  more. 

DEU.  Try  once  again  forsooth! 

I  care  not,  for  the  trial 's  vain.    Once  more ! 
I  '11  rub  the  sticks  again  together.    No, 
They  breed  no  heat. 

PYR.  I  '11  pile  the  firestuff  —  wait  — 

Lest  the  one  spark  be  lost. 

DEU.  The  spark  is  dead, 

I  say,  the  light  has  ended,  and  henceforth 
Misery  and  blackness  unendurable 
Stand  in  the  eyes  that  saw,  the  hearth  that  burned.  — 
I  draw  no  fire. 

PYR.     Where  art  thou  ?  Flints,  here  —  strike  again. 

DEU.  So  did  I  a  thousand  times  and  nothing  leapt. 
Alas! 

PYR.    Ah  me,  how  dark  it  is  and  cold. 

PROMETHEUS  [aside], 
It  bursts  the  heart  to  see  them  suffer  thus. 

DEU.  Strange,  strange    how  since   the  fatal  even 
ing  all 

This  mound  of  darkness  fell.    Father  Prometheus 
Then  cheated  God  and  offered  him  in  guile 
Wind-eggs  and  uusubstantial  things:   wherefor 
We  people  pay  the  wrath  that  never  ends, 


[109] 

Life  in  the  dark  and  obscure  loneliness,  — 
Knowing  nor  when  to  sleep  nor  when  to  wake, 
Eating  what  herbs  we  gather  here,  abroad 
The  plain  grazed  by  the  kine  we  cannot  find. 
I  hear  them  in  the  dark:  they  toss  their  heads, 
Having  slept  much  too  long,  and  wander  on 
And  trample,  or  halting  with  outstretched  neck 
Low  stubborn  none  knows  where,  far  thro'  the  night. 

[The  cattle  low.] 
Hear  them! 
PANDORA  [singing]. 

As  a  poplar  feels  the  sun's  enfolding  kiss, 
And  softly  alone  on  the  quiet  plain 
Yields  to  him  all  her  silver  trellises, 
A  ghost  of  green  in  the  golden  rain, 
And  trembles  lightly  thro'  the  shining  air 
Nearly  unseen  and  melting  in  sky 
Save  for  a  shadow  on  the  grasses  there : 
So  over  the  earth  and  world  am  I. 
The  lips  of  Gods  and  mortals  in  a  dream 
Have  lain  on  my  lips  of  a  summer  night : 
They  fade  like  images  down-stream, 
But  I  have  remained  behind  the  light. 
I  give  the  giver  more  than  that  he  sought, 
And  more  than  I  give  am  I,  much  more : 
As  words  are  to  an  everlasting  thought, 
So  less  than  the  mother  the  child  she  bore. 

PYR.  What  says  she? 

DEU.  A  time  ago,  the  God  of  Gods 


Zeus  came  to  adore  her,  and  the  immortal  arms 
Closing  about  her  gave  her  travailing. 

PYR.  Did  he  so  ? 

DETJ.  Aye,  like  a  master  so  he  did. 

PYR.  She  knows  perchance  then  something,  knows 

perhaps 

If  we  're  thus  brutishly  to  suffer  always  and 
Forever  gaze  upon  this  frozen  void.  — 
Know'st  thou  our  fate,  Pandora  ?  Tell  me,  mother!  — 
She  has  not  heard. 

DEU.  Or  sorrow  blocks  her  ears. 

For  ever  since  God  approached  her,  on  the  ground, 
He^  silence  threaded  by  dull  murmurs,  lone 
She  sits  up  stonelike  'gainst  the  rude  house-wall. 
On  hand  and  knee  some  while  ago  I  crawled 
Up  to  her,  and,  saying  our  heavy  troubles,  passed 
Over  her  cool  immobile  face  my  hand; 
I  kissed  her  eyes,  I  touched  and  held  her  chin: 
But  all  that  while  she  said  nothing  to  me, 
Remaining  passive,  silent,  pitiless, 
Albeit  her  eyes  were  very  wide  awake. 

PYR.  The  pensive  cannot  sleep. 

DEU.  O  misery, 

Would  that  I  were  asleep  a  long  long  time, 
Beyond  to-morrow  and  the  summer's  end! 
Nay,  sometimes  down  my  dark  bewildered  brain 
Stumble  fantastic  hopes  that  —  like  the  birds 
I've  found  afield  dismembered  and  undone, 
Like  beasts  that  shut  their  swimming  eyes,  and  leaves 


[  111  ] 

That  eddy  dizzily  down  the  nervous  wind  — 
So  we  may  fail  and  fall,  be  swept  away 
From  what  we  are. 

PYR.  I  too,  Deukalion. 

Labour  at  last  is  shame  within  the  soul. 
Have  I  not  faithfully  day  after  day 
Uptorn  the  crusty  earth  and  smashed  the  clots, 
Scattering  with  thee  the  everlasting  seeds  ? 
Have  I  not  homeward  carried  every  day 
Upon  my  head  pitchers  of  spring-water 
And  packs  of  straw  for  bedding;  and  arranged 
This  place  we  live  in  cleanly  and  cheeringly  ? 
Yes,  here  have  I  within  thy  warm  embrace 
Season  on  season,  long  with  agony, 
My  brain  sunstricken  and  my  body  sick 
With  travelling  the  dreadful  acres,  borne 
Daughters  and  sons  and  sons  and  daughters ;  whom 
At  midnight  then,  against  their  crying,  alone 
I  rocked  in  my  exhausted  arms,  I  suckled 
And  bending  watched,  till,  as  between  my  brows 
It  hammered  thuds  of  slumber,  very  late 
A  little  thin  gray  morning  thro'  the  chinks 
Told  the  disaster  of  another  day. 
And  I  have  reared  them  and  pitifully  taught  them, 
My  hand  upon  their  hair,  my  broken  truths, — 
So  laboured  in  their  welfare!   and  in  pain 
So  scourged  their  weakness!    Woe  is  me,  alas! 
They  never  gave  me  thanks,  no,  nor  so  much 
As  looked  a  little  in  my  hungry  eyes. 


Rather,  against  the  time  of  strength,  rebellious 
They  fret  their  freedom  out,  and  last  of  all 
Abandoning  me  for  another  world 
Go  down  the  sunset,  being  seen  no  more. 

DEU.  Yes,  over  fields  we  sowed  they  went  away, 
Trampling  our  harvest  down.    And  here  we  lie 
All  hedged  in  with  hoar  and  darkness,  old 
For  staring  on  the  sodden  vacancy. 
I  would  I  knew  what  thing  is  in  my  heart 
To  stamp  away  so  hardly!   but  for  it, 
I'm  that  much  tired  and  aching-desolate 
I'd  pass  away  in  earth. 

PRO.  [aside].  How  horrible 

Is  now  become  their  life! 

PYR.  It  wearies  me 

To  think  of  further  being,  against  the  time 
Not  yet  bygone.    For  then  it  needs  must  be 
My  breasts  will  shrivel  up,  my  faded  flesh 
Starve  on  the  joints,  and  all  the  bloom  I  was, 
The  rose  and  perfume  of  their  pleasure,  shrink 
Into  a  thing  of  shame. 

DEU.  Beyond  recall 

The  labour  of  our  lives  now  desiccates. 
Our  sweat  was  poured  for  nothing;  we  have  bled 
Wounded  with  ignorance  in  such  a  task 
As  irks  one  in  the  very  memory  of  't. 

PRO.  [coming  forward]. 
Then  let  us  now  remember  nothing  more, 
But  blindly  hope  in  spite  of  all.    And  I 


[113] 

Who  once  defied  the  Gods,  again  to-day 
Stand  and  demand  our  dignities  of  them. 
We  will  not  suffer  thus,  we  will  not  go 
Darkly  and  despicably  tumbling  down 
The  road  of  life.  For  we  be  something  more; 
Nor  quite  in  vain  infinite  earth  obeys 
The  plough  we  fashioned.    All  indeed  is  ours! 
We  are  the  crown  of  nature  and  her  lord. 

DEU.  O  hold  thy  peace,  desperate  man !  The  Gods, 
Thy  littleness  to  show,  have  now  been  pleased 
To  take,  for  matter  of  their  anger,  us 
Who  serviceably  did  our  common  task. 
Thou  pil'st  our  suffering  up.    What  is  thy  heart 
To  bring  curse  after  curse  upon  thy  children,  all 
For  idle  show  in  the  face  of  destiny  ? 

PRO.  'T  is  time  we  stood  up  as  before,  and  looked, 
Brushing  the  meshes  from  our  forehead,  forth 
Upon  the  sunshine  and  the  rolling  corn. 

DEU.  To  bring  upon  this  woman  and  me,  upon 
All  generations,  vanity  and  a  life 
Fatal  and  stupid  as  the  stones. 

PRO.  Enough, 

Thou  art  mine  enemy!    For  a  little  pain 
Thou  givest  justice  to  the  dogs.    Aside! 
Hinder  my  thoughts  no  more.    Alone  to-day 
I  shall  restore  the  light. 

PTR.  O  father  mine, 

I  nothing  say  who  love  thee  evermore. 
Give  us  the  light  and  life,  give  us  the  hope, 


[114] 

That  we  may  never  question  but  abide 
Unthinkingly  by  what  is  set  before. 
Lay  thy  two  hands  upon  my  brow,  and  smile 
Tho'  the  night  hide  thy  sweetness.    Say  the  word, 
Give  us  the  promise.    We  believe  thy  strength. 
For  see,  we  suffer  and  so  scarcely  endure 
That  nothingness  were  better  far,  and  ev'n 
The  being  unborn  a  wholly  happy  thing. 

PRO.    Yes,    woman,    word    and    promise    hold:    I 

swear 't 

By  me  and  thee  who  bearest  in  the  world 
The  sweeter  burden  and  the  sharper  pain. 
This  night  is  not  fore'er  nor  long,  and  soon 
Between  the  cliffs  of  darkness  issuing  shall 
The  day  its  thousand  arrows  pour  abroad 
Here  where  we  lived  —  and  shall  in  other  years 
Live  and  increase,  our  children's  children,  on 
To  generations  jealous  as  the  Gods. 
This  will  I  do,  and  if  they  stood  in  rank, 
Yet  will  I  storm  them,  winning  back  the  fire 
And  scattering  the  hope  that  cannot  die. 

DETJ.  What  misery  will  be  ours! 

PYB.  Speak  to  the  end. 

'T  is  sweet  to  dream  on  what  not  yet  has  been. 

PRO.  'T  were  sure  a  shame  to  grovel  at  the  doors 
And  ask  a  pittance,  when  the  Lord  is  I. 

DEU.  Necessity! 

PRO.  We  change  and  pass  away, 

But  so  in  changing  have  some  mastery,  we 


[115] 

Revolving  make  progression,  we  endure 
In  virtue  of  desire  and  hope  dissatisfied, 
And,  thro'  disaster  struggling,  at  the  last 
Fetch  in  salvation  and  the  human  end. 
This  for  now!  najr,  only  a -little  space 
Of  twilight  is  before,  a  dubious  interval 
After  the  night,  this  side  of  day,  as  tho' 
We  stood  upon  the  threshold  momently 
Where  morning  meets  with  evening  passing  by. 
Therefore  in  tears  no  longer  dreaming,  now 
Turn,  tho'  your  hearts  be  broken,  turn  your  eyes 
Dayward,  and  quelling  all  lament  with  hope 
Wait  for  my  coming  homeward.    I  declare 
I  will  go  bring  the  sunlight  in  my  hands 
Back  from  God's  citadel  and  home  to  us. 

[He  goes  away.] 
PAN.  [singing]. 

Before  my  eyes  they  come  and  go  ; 

The  shadows  on  my  dreaming  face 

Move  to  and  fro, 

Yet  I  look  further  over  larger  ways. 

For  pity  is  not  of  that  nor  this. 

And  kindness  stretches  out  her  arm 

On  all  that  is. 

To  keep  the  grass-blade  and  the  star  from  harm. 

She  kisses  every  dying  wave 

Into  the  sweetness  of  her  trust, 

And  stoops  to  save 

The  bird  that  sank  from  heaven  into  dust.  — 


[116] 

The  battle  hurtles  long  and  loud 

Between  the  mountains  and  the  sea  ; 

The  yellow  cloud 

Crashes  the  woods  in  sunder  tree  by  tree, 

And  struggling  over  land  and  main 

The  generations  masterful 

With  greed  and  pain 

Scatter  upon  the  turj  a  brother's  skull : 

I  walk  the  places  where  they  drove 

And  sing  my  song  where  all  is  cursed.    % 

Then,  for  my  love, 

The  child  will  play  again,  the  flower  burst. 

DEU.  What  a  strange  mournful  voice  is  hers! 

PYR.  No,    no !     I   feel   a   happiness   bringing 

leaves 

Upon  the  branches,  and  the  night  is  less 
Between  now  and  to-morrow!    Oh,  to-morrow  — 

DEU.  Thine,  woman,  is  a  silly  heart,  and  trust 
Is  in  thy  being  like  a  malady. 
Father  Prometheus,  greatest  of  us  all, 
Avails  not  with  his  majestic  arrogance 
To  wrench  from  God  the  blessing  he  denies. 
And  we  be  cursed!    I  know  not  wherefore,  no, 
I  cannot  say  what  mischief,  thine  or  mine, 
Merited  punishment:   but  we  be  cursed 
Beyond  our  father's  valour  to  revoke,  — 
And  I  believe,  to  pay  his  awful  deed, 
He  will  hang  out  in  anguish  crucified 
Upon  the  giddy  ramparts  of  the  world 


[117] 

While  we  mysteriously  damned  shall  hide 
Here  at  night's  bottom  to  the  last  of  time. 

EPIMETHEUS.  Deukalion! 

DEU.  Here,  father,  this  way  home. 

EPI.  Deukalion! 

DEU.  Here,  here!    Thou  seekest  us ? 

What  is 't? 

EPI.  I  Ve  journeyed  hopeless  and  too  long, 

Nothing  before  but  darkness  and  behind 
This  endless  shadow  of  my  memory. 

PYR.  Poor  heart!    thou  lovest  overmuch  the  past. 
But  happiness  is  toward,  the  night  will  end. 

DEU.  Heed  her  not,  Epimetheus!    Thy  brother 
Has  spoiled  her  brain  with  promises  and  words. 

EPI.  Where  is  he  ? 

DEU.  Come  to  fetch  the  fire  again, 

To  kindle  back  the  world  to  what  it  was. 

EPI.  The  fool!    He  struggles  forward  evermore, 
Like  one  who  stumbles;  but  the  sadder  thought 
Never  constrains  him,  that  futurity 
Is  dead  with  phantoms  of  the  things  bygone, — 

DEU.  Aye,  and  alive  with  sufferings  that  are. 
He's  wild  and  rolls  like  whirlwind  up  a  steep, 
Leaving  but  ruin. 

EPI.  When  I  consider  time, 

Remembering  all  my  pastimes  and  the  haunts 
Where  clustered  flowers  erewhile  that  one  by  one 
Shone  either  side  the  path  of  what  I  was, 
My  bosom  fills  more  than  to  hold  with  pain, 


[118] 

And  yearning,  like  a  swallow  in  the  void, 
Strains  aching,  dropping  down,  down  endlessly. 
PYR.  Come  nearer  that  I  rest  thee  in  my  arms. 
PAN.  [singing]. 

Many  who  have  only  dreamed  of  me 
Have  grown  unhappy  and  lost  their  years. 
They  gather  the  daisies  thoughtfully, 
Then  throw  them  away  and  burst  in  tears. 
Their  eyes  are  filled  —  for  they  looked  so  long  — 
With  the  sunset-light  of  my  aureole  ; 
Their  lips  will  quiver  to  utter  song, 
And  the  spring  lies  swelling  under  their  soul. 
For  their  hand  in  a  woman's  hand  is  laid 
And  between  a  woman's  breasts  their  brow. 
For  a  while  they  feel  no  longer  afraid 
With  the  sky  above  and  the  earth  below : 
But  never  the  whole  and  the  fulness  come. 
Their  eyes  are  blind  with  another  light. 
They  walk  through  echoes  and  have  no  home, 
Like  shadows  waving  upon  the  night. 

EPI.  Pandora's  voice. 

PYR.  Obscure  and  pitiful. 

DETJ.  What  sawest  thou  on  thy  travel  ? 

EPI.  No  daylight. 

Nor  anything  on  before;  but  at  my  back 
Remembrance  made  a  weary  song,  chanting 
The  mellow  seasons  that  have  gone  away. 

DEU.  And  bringest  nothing  ? 

EPI.  No. 


[119] 

DEU.  How  profitless, 

Thou  and  thy  brother,  elders  tho'  ye  be, 
Worry  the  time  out  and  defeat  yourselves. 
One  storms  gigantic  up  the  heavens;  thou 
Triest  to  die  with  thine  own  memory. 

PYR.  Leave  him,  Deukalion,  for  he  is  so  sad. 

DEU.  Aye,  't  is  we  suffer  their  temerities, 
And  back  and  forth,  to  ends  we  know  not  of, 
Madden  between  to-morrow  and  yesterday. 

PYR.  Father,  be  comforted!    And  if  it  please  thee, 
According  to  thy  fancy,  nothing  forced, 
Sing  us  meanwhile  a  rune  here  in  the  night. 
For  song  is  very  like  a  summer  fern 
Sweeter  for  dark;   and  we  sad  winter  birds 
Will  dream  a  little  while  more  pleasantly. 

EPI.  [chanting]. 

The  noise  in  the  eternal  heart  abates. 
The  valley  of  the  world  is  blotted  out, 
And  either  end  the  boulders  on  the  gates 

Are  pushed  across  and  shut. 
The  mountains  in  the  dark  are  growing  small. 
No  wind  is  any  more  upon  the  lea. 
The  stone  has  frittered  from  the  waterfall 

Down  rivers  to  the  sea. 
The  uttermost  is  swelling  out  in  void, 
In  total  night,  more  cold  and  emptier 
Around  the  ghost  of  that  which  is  destroyed, 

The  breath  of  things  that  were. 

[A  long  silence.] 


[120] 

PYR.  Hush,  for  I  hear  him. 

DETJ.  Say! 

PYR.  Prometheus 

Is  coming.    All  thro*  my  blood  the  pulses  knock, 
I  see  the  flames  —  they  crackle. 

DETT.  Her  brain  is  wild. 

EPI.  I  feel  like  echoes  of  the  lost  daylight  — 

PYR.  He  comes,  he  comes.    Nay,  look  how  fast  the 

light 

Rolls  gaining  on  the  dark  and  urges  back 
Like  windy  boulders  of  obscurity. 
His  step !   I  hear  him,  I  see  him  —  Prometheus ! 

PRO.  [shouting  from  far]. 

This  torch  will  light  our  lives.    Rejoice!  up,  up! 
I  say  we  have  the  sunlight  back  again. 

DEU.  How  sharp  a  dazzle  races  the  empty  air! 
I  see  nothing. 

EPI.  It  reddens  in  my  two  eyes, 

My  brain  is  needled  thro'  with  pain. 

PRO.  [rushing  in  with  a  torch,  lights  the  pyre]. 

Rejoice, 

The  lost  is  won!    Our  dignities  once  more 
Resume  their  proper  thrones,  and  we  are  men. 

PYR.  Thy  forehead  shines  like  morning !  on  thy  neck 
I  lay  my  arms  —  but  the  light  kills  — 

PRO.  No,  come 

And  gladden!  Logs  here  and  pitch  and  all  that  burns, 
That  kindles,  flames.    Bring,  pile  it  high  as  heaven, 
Along  like  rivers  and  across  like  fields! 


[121] 

'T  has  dawned  at  last,  such  dawn  as  ne'er  before 
Tore  the  wide  sky.    From  out  bottomless  chasms 
Fountains  jet  glittering  up  into  the  sky 
And  hailstone  sparks  descend,  tumbling  like  sand 
Over  the  mountains  swollen  in  conflagration. 

DETJ.  Stay,  father,  hear  me! 

PRO.  I  have  it  from  the  Gods. 

Aye,  from  the  hearthstone  of  the  Gods  I  caught 
This  fire  and  hope  and  knowledge  won  to  us  — 
My  torch  be  brandished  in  the  face  of  Zeus! 

EPI.  Brother,  be  softer  in  triumph  or  we  die. 

PRO.  Still  was  it  night,  thick  night,  when  I  at  the 

base 

Of  their  enormous  mountain  stood,  around  me 
A  blacker  gloom,  foliage  and  bearded  firs, 
All  of  a  forest's  heaviness:  thro'  which 
Down  from  the  summit  wanderingly  quired 
Amazing  echoes  of  a  festival, 
Of  instruments  and  choral  song.    Below 
Sounded,  like  vast  itinerant  herds  afield 
Under  the  night,  the  torrents  rumbling  on. 
There  I  began.    Sheer  up  the  night,  alone 
And  without  fear,  catching  ahold  of  pines 
To  swing  me  higher  or  stay  me  from  recoil, 
I  climbed.    Beneath  my  trample  brushwood  crashed 
In  the  spongy  soil,  and  snapped  the  twigs  short-off. 
Behind,  dislodged,  stone  after  stone  bounded 
Down  thumping  to  the  depths.    But  straightaway 
I  groped  thro'  snarls  of  ragged  boughs  that  scratched 


[122] 

My  visage  blind,  and  tore  the  weedy  shrubs 

Which  like  fine  cordage  knotted  my  feet  back: 

So  floundered  up  the  dumb  dead  humid  night. 

Soon  thinned  the  forestry.    From  tree  to  tree 

Espaced,  the  ground  lay  tamer,  —  moss  and  herbs, 

A  softness  underfoot.    Then,  not  a  pine, 

But  blind  and  weary  slopes  of  shale  that  passed 

Upward  in  the  deserted  gloom.    I  gasped  — 

'T  was  icy  still  and  thin,  and  very  sweet 

With  unseen  flowers,  the  last  of  earthly  things 

Carelessly  blooming  in  immensity, 

Where  still  I  mounted  like  an  arrow  shot 

Up  with  revenge  and  scorn  to  the  midnight  clouds. 

Sudden  the  windier  air  froze  and  my  feet 

Crunched  snow  which  even  in  such  a  dark  as  was 

Shone  bluely  with  a  smothered  light  away 

To  the  summit.    At  my  throat  I  felt  the  void; 

It  stung  my  sweated  face.    I  stamped  the  crust, 

And  step  by  step  ascending  wilfully 

Laddered  the  cold  up  skyward  to  the  end. 

Just  then  that  music,  which  half  heard  before 

And  undistinguished  down  the  steeps  unfurled, 

Struck  quicker  rhythm;   and  looking  up  I  saw 

Mid  draperies  of  darkness  hanging  vague 

A  halo  shining  downwards,  in  the  ice 

Mirrored  like  vapour  mazed  with  meteors. 

In  a  last  hurry  I  climbed.    The  freezing  dark 

Was  all  a  tremor  of  song,  and  finally 

A  dim  design  of  snowy  mansion  grew 


[123] 

Ghostly  and  lucid,  carved  of  summer  cloud, 

A  white  flame  tapering  at  the  core  of  space. 

And  then  methought  the  appalling  night  and  gloom 

Drew  like  an  ocean's  ebb  sinkingly  down, 

I  swimming  out.    The  floor  lay  luminous, 

As  when  by  pale  gray  weather  and  no  wind 

A  glossy  lake  at  morning  falls  asleep: 

Whence  grading  to  the  citadel  for  steps 

An  hundred  plinths  of  crystal  led.    They  cut 

The  mild  light  slant  along  their  silver  edge, 

Describing  circles  and  diminishing 

Toward  certain  columns  roundly  poised  atop. 

Up  to  that  place  of  supreme  glory,  I 

Man  of  the  niggard  earth  and  god  at  heart 

Mounted  out  of  disaster  to  my  place. 

It  seemed  daylight  growing  and  diffused, 

Splendid,  melodious,  and  of  such  perfume. 

As  warms  upon  a  meadow  at  afternoon 

Of  cloudless  summer;   and  another  light, 

Neither  of  sun  nor  moon,  awaked  the  air 

To  radiance  wreathing  on  the  point  of  all. 

This  was  his  palace,  vastly  and  circular, 

Builded  of  lucent  marble,  with  a  film 

Hung  in  its  height,  erratic,  shadowing-in 

Unlikely  plants  and  wondrous  ocean-flowers. 

And  placed  about  stood  pillars  very  firm, 

Where  top  to  bottom  slender  flutings  ran; 

And  around  every  pillar  drew  a  belt 

Mid-high,  that  brake  the  rods  of  light  in  twain; 


[124] 

And  there,  clamped  in  a  sconce  of  gold  each  one 
And  cinct  with  silver  snakes,  the  torches  burned 
Upholding  flames  of  the  everlasting  fire, 
The  sacred  fire  that  having  once  been  ours 
He  stole  again  who  names  his  own  self  God. 

EPI.  Alas!  thy  scorn  will  drag  his  vengeance  down. 

PRO.  Peace,  man!    He  wronged  me,  and  the  day  is 

mine. 

One  of  those  torches  is  this  in  my  hand. 
It  flamed  to  right  where  the  entrance  is,  two  bright 
Iron-swung  sheets  of  brass,  firm-barred  across 
And  bolted  'gainst  the  fearful  universe: 
While  inside  cried  aloud  perennial  choirs 
To  a  single  note  so  puissant  and  superb 
It  seemed  an  ocean  singing  to  the  sun. 
I  heard,  and  seized  the  torch.    In  challenge  too 
Wrenching  the  clasp,  I  hurled  it  formless  down 
Before  their  gates  and  turned  my  feet  away. 

[It  thunders.] 

PYB.  Father,  be  calm. 

DEU.  O  desolation  and  despair! 

Thou,  wretched  man,  shalt  be  our  ruin. 

PYR.  Hush! 

The  winds  are  up  — 

EPI.  It  had  to  be  — 

PYR.  Like  streams 

Swirling  before  they  burst. 

DETJ.  A  thunder-cloud 

Unravels  down  out  of  the  burning  sky. 


[125] 

PRO.  I  say,  whate'er's  achieved,  once  and  for  all 
Stands  in  defiance,  and  we  at  Nature's  heart 
Register  signs  of  our  nobility. 
This  is  the  symbol  I  have  had  my  will, 
Which  down  the  crystal  stairs  into  the  depth 
I  bore,  a  little  flame  thro'  darkness,  won 
From  summits  which  henceforth  are  counted  ours. 
With  it  I've  lit  the  world. —Look  forth,  my  chil 
dren! 

All  the  unfolded  earth,  mountain  and  vale 
Holding  their  fruits  aloft,  the  knotty  crags 
Scattering  colour,  and  the  prairies  green 
With  tuft  and  billow  of  infinite  grass: 
Of  all  their  life  your  h'fe  is  nourished. 
Follow  the  rivers  further  to  the  sea 
And  launch  your  enterprise!    The  wilful  soul 
Goes  forward  to  possess,  and  vindicates 
From  strength  to  strength  the  majesty  of  life. 

EPI.  Alas! 

Nothing  will  teach  thee  infelicity. 
The  sunrise  is  not  all:  who  shall  forget 
For  stubbornness  or  greed  the  yesterdays 
Which  rivet  us  to  the  soil  we  come  of  ?    See, 
The  woman  weeps. 

PYR.  [to  PROMETHEUS].   I'll  follow  on  —  heed  not 

him  — 
Despite  exhaustion  for  the  hope  — 

EPI.  The  hope  ? 

What  says  she  ? 


[126] 

PRO.  More  of  truth  than  e'er  them  knew'st. 

DETJ.  Oh,  this  it  is  that  whets  the  rusty  scythe! 
And  notwithstanding  certainly  we  believe 
It  nothing  profits  so  throughout  the  year 
To  strain,  yet  strain  all  the  year  thro'  we  must, 
And  for  a  hope!    Thou  mad'st  it  so!    The  worm 
Which  bores  the  parched  glebe  is  happier, 
The  goaded  oxen  plodding  for  a  bread 
Not  theirs,  more  calm  —  thou  mad'st  it  so !  A  curse 
Upon  thee!    May  thy  tortures  pay  our  own, 
Our  stupid  agonies  that  in  the  daylight  now 
Begin  afresh!  —  I  will  not  struggle  more. 

PRO.  He  whines.    A  pity  't  is  the  world  consists 
Of  such:  who  using  nature  and  themselves, 
Suffer  their  task  and  clog  with  lamentation 
The  rush  and  furtherance  of  human  things. 
For  hope,  being  had,  suffices;  in  so  much 
We  prosper,  and  the  Gods  are  idle  dreams 
Strung  in  the  void  of  our  uncertain  thoughts. 

[It  thunders.] 

EPI.  Another  day  has  been. 

DEU.  Thunder  again! 

The  eternal  reason  will  be  justified, 
And  truth  descends  against  the  haughty  brain. 

PYR.  How't  darkens! 

PRO.  [soliloquising].    She  too  loses  heart.    At  last, 
Whatever  be  done  of  large  and  generous, 
Howe'er  one's  life  be  given,  and  freely  all 
Delight,  affection,  quiet  sacrificed 


[127] 

For  something  bolder  to  the  good  of  man, — 
Yet  at  the  last  he  will  prefer  disgrace 
And  hug  his  slavery,  leaving  him  that  strove 
To  fight  damnation  and  despair  alone. 

PYR.  Ah  me,  the  daylight  vanishes  in  death. 

[A  cloud  gradually  falls  through  the  scene,  and 

all  fades  in  gray  obscurity.] 
PAN.  [singing]. 

As  an  immortal  nightingale 
I  sing  behind  the  summer  sky 
Thro'  leaves  of  starlight  gold  and  pale 
That  shiver  with  my  melody, 
Along  the  wake  of  the  full-moon 
Far  on  to  oceans,  and  beyond 
Where  the  horizons  vanish  down 
In  darkness  clear  as  diamond. 

EPI.  On  wings  of  memory  the  night  returns. 
The  great  bird  gires  before  he  drop  again. — 
Sunlight  and  country  that  I  knew!    O  sky! 
Ye  furl  yourselves  and  wander  shadowily 
Into  the  endless  backward  of  the  heart. 

PYR.  It  blows  and  darkens  in.    Where  is  he  ? 

[It  thunders.] 

THE  VOICES  OF  ZEUS.    Man,  come  with  us,  come 
with  us,  come  away! 

PRO.  [aside]. 
His  voice! 

THE  VOICES.  Come  to  receive  thy  certain  pain. 


PRO.  Justice  of  God,  malignant  destiny, 
Delirious  curse!   how  it  confounds  the  brain 
To  see  thee  blast  our  strength,  and  day  by  day 
With  all  thy  crooked  fingers  here  rip  up 
The  patient  fabric  of  our  energy. 
Over  the  endless  harvest,  o'er  the  home 
We  builded  with  great  pain,  for  pastime  thou 
Spill'st  putrefaction,  and  upon  thy  palm 
The  world  shakes  like  an  egg,  to  shut  and  crush. 
THE  VOICES.  Be  ready,  for  the  time  is  Now!  We've 

come 

To  lead  thee  to  the  edge  of  wilderness. 
PRO.  We'll  die  in  battle.    Come  near. 
THE  VOICES.  Thou  canst  not  die. 

'T  is  thine  to  struggle  everlastingly. 
Look  o'er  the  world,  unhappy  wretch,  and  come! 
PAN.  [singing]. 

My  dew  is  everywhere 
Where  things  are  ; 
I  jail  and  flutter  and  fare, 

Leaving  a  star 

By  the  roads  of  earth,  in  the  far 
Paths  of  the  air. 

Mine  is  the  milk  to  charm 

In  a  mother's  breast, 
Sweet  with  her  pain  and  warm 

With  her  rest, 
The  life  that  asks  for  a  nest 

In  her  arm  ; 


[129] 

And  mine  is  the  violet 

That  so  lies 
In  the  evening  of  her  wet 

Sorrowful  eyes. 
For  another  thing  may  rise, 

But  her  youth  has  set. 

Nothing  is  less  with  me, 

Nothing  is  lost. 
For  I  smile  on  the  earth  and  sea, 

On  the  infinite  host 
Of  the  dead  and  the  living,  and  most 

On  the  yet-to-be. 

PRO.  Pandora,  how  thou  singest  o'er  my  pain 
Yet  of  my  humiliation  nothing!    Ah, 
Farewell,  and  let  thy  voice  for  evermore 
Sweeten  the  dreary  acres  of  mankind. 

THE  VOICES.  The  day  is  at  an  end. 

PRO.  But  not  my  deed! 

The  light  is  theirs  and  I  the  giver  thereof, 
Long  as  blood  beats  within  the  human  heart.  — 
Unhand  me!    Ah! 

THE  VOICES.        Wear  now  thy  chains. 

PYR.  Who  is 't  that  chains  ?  Where  is  he  now  ? 

PRO.  Alone, 

Beyond  thy  arms,  in  other  hands  than  thine. 

THE  VOICES.  Drag  him  on!  for  he  balks  the  will  of 
God. 

PRO.  Yet  does  my  work  outstrip  the  penalty. 


[130] 

Nothing  may  die  or  live  infructuous, 

And  I'm  immortal:   for  I  join  with  Being, 

And  nothing  in  the  universal  sphere 

But  is. 

'T  was  with  me  for  a  while  as  with  the  sun 

Upon  the  ocean:   writing  out  in  gold 

The  moving  characters  of  highest  day, 

Which  to  dull  creatures  of  the  depth  appeared 

Fantastic  and  divine  and  possible. 

THE  VOICES.  Drag  him  away!    The  stubborn  mind 
has  burst. 

PRO.  Many  times  I  have  died  and  yet  shall  die. 
For  Nature  rolls  on,  while  across  the  chasms 
From  hill  to  hill  and  round  from  east  to  west 
Voices  pass  on  the  echo  to  the  stars. 
So  forms  are  laid  aside,  and  if  I  lived, 
I  was  the  cresting  of  the  tide  wherein 
An  endless  motion  rose  exemplified. 

THE  VOICES.  Bear  him  away,  for  evening  falleth  in. 
[The  cloud  lifts,  PROMETHEUS  has  disappeared. 
A  great  sunset  fills  the  scene.] 

PAN.  [singing]. 

My  soul  of  sunset  every  human  day 
In  long  sad  colours  on  the  evening  dwells 
And  gives  her  solemn  violet  away 
Over  the  quiet  endlessness  of  hills. 

Mild  and  gold  burns  from  cloud  to  cloud,  above 
The  obscurer  fields,  my  pity  for  an  hour  ; 


[131] 

And  then  life  goes  to  sleep  within  my  love, 
The  world  is  drawn  together  as  a  flower. 

Labour  at  last  within  the  soul  is  peace, 
And  faithful  pain  after  a  certain  while 
Like  other  things  will  strengthen  and  increase 
And  colour  at  the  last  into  a  smile.  — 

Rest  in  my  bosom  till  thy  day  be  due, 
Until  my  day  be  finished  at  sunrise, 
And  I  behold  thee  glittering  thro*  the  blue 
And  playing  in  the  sunset  of  my  eyes. 

EPI.  The  sunset  comes  to  die  now  as  of  yore,  — 
The  sad  recurrence  of  remembered  things. 

PYR.  He's  gone  to  suffer,  gone  whither?    Alas! 
Would  I  knew  where  his  bleeding  head  will  lie 
To  give  my  breast  for  pillow  and  avert 
The  dreadful  vengeance  feeding  on  his  soul !  — 
How  crimsonly  the  day  declines!    Come  sleep, 
Deukalion,  for  to-morrow  brings  again 
The  sun  he  gave  us,  and  the  hope  —  the  life. 


II 

FRAGMENTS    OF  A   DRAMA    ON    THE 
LIFE  OF  THE  EMPEROR  JULIAN 


r 


[THIS  splendid  fragment  was  begun  in  the  first  half  of  the 
year  1901.  STICKNET  was  then  unable,  however,  to  give  it 
the  time  and  attention  required  for  its  completion,  and 
though  he  subsequently  returned  to  it  with  unabated  interest, 
It  was,  unhappily,  never  finished.  STICKNEY  had  planned 
to  treat  the  life  of  Julian  in  two  dramas,  a  shorter  one,  of 
which  the  following  pages  are  a  part,  dealing  with  the 
period  before  his  election  to  the  throne,  and  one  on  a  much 
larger  scale,  beginning  with  his  coronation  at  Paris  and 
ending  with  his  death  at  Maronga.  Of  this  drama  nothing 
remains  but  an  extremely  brief  synopsis.] 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 

CONSTANCE:  THE  KING 
EUSEBIA:  THE  QUEEN 
HELENA:  HIS  SISTER 
JULIAN:    HIS  COUSIN 
EUSEBIUS:   LORD  CHAMBERLAIN 

ARBETIO 
REMIGIUS 
MERCURIUS 
APODEMIUS 

SCENE:    Milan,  Como,  Milan. 


[137] 

ACT   I 

The  Privy  Council  hall  in  the  Palace  at  Milan 

EUSEBIUS      BEMIGIUS 
ARBETIO       MERCURIUS 

EUSEBIUS.  Have  you  the  news  of 't  ? 

ARBETIO.  Rumours,  nothing  more. 

BUS.  And  yet  by  this  the  Fury  should  be  dead. 
They  had  him. 

MERCURIUS.       Oh,  had  him !  perhaps !  but  well  we 

know, 

While  yet  th'  imperial  prisoner,  hither  bound, 
At  Adrianople  tarried,  now  and  again 
A  soldier,  privy  officer,  detached 
From  garrisons  then  wintered  thereabouts, 
Down  the  palatial  corridors  or  plain 
At  the  high  gate  with  pleas  of  business  still 
Admittance  to  the  Caesar  asked.    They  say 
None  saw  him,  but  — 

ARB.  L  None.    I  have  't  too  certainly 

That  we  shoula  vex  our  comfort  and  belief 
With  your  amused  suspicions. 

MER.  Often,  Sir, 

You're  well  informed,  and  oft  again  too  well. 

EUS.  I  judge  Arbetio  right.    A  costly  risk 
To  slip  a  criminal  so  superb!    Let  be, 
For  newer  things  press  for  attention. 


[138] 

This  monster  dead,  as  out  of  doubt  I  say 

He  will  be  or  is,  one,  only  one  remains 

Of  the  imperial  race,  this  man's  half-brother 

And  cousin  to  King  Constance,  Julian. 

I  make  no  question  (as  having  darkly,  yet 

In  words  sufficient,  touched  upon  this  theme 

Amongst  us  all  and  certain  other  few 

You  know  of)  hereupon  the  agreement  stands: 

That  he  we  speak  of,  newly  here  arrived 

By  order,  Julian  — 

MER.  Tush!    Some  one  comes. 

[Enter  SERVANT.] 

SERVANT.  One  Apodemius  in  the  Courtyard  waits 
His  Majesty's  good  pleasure. 

EUS.  Looks  he  glad  ? 

SER.  Dead  with  his  haste  and  journey,  yet  withal 
A  bearer  of  good  news,  your  Lordship. 

EUS.  Let  Apodemius  appear  —  or  no ! 
You  '11  wait  an  order.  [Exit  SERVANT.] 

Caesar  's  dead.    If  then 

Occasion  come  to  push  our  scheme,  the  road 
In  general  direction  cleared,  it  needs 
No  further  counsel  to  begin,  excepting 
What  special  case  the  future  bring  to  note. 
We  have  our  cues. 

[Preceded  by  guards,  the  KING  and   QUEEN  enter  and 
take  their  seats.] 

KING.  We  give  you  all  good  morrow. 

Has  news  arrived  from  Pola? 


[139] 

EUS.  Please  you,  one 

Waits  your  good  order,  Apodemius. 
KING.  Waits  ?   How  is  this  ? 

EUS.  This  minute  just  announced. 

KING.  Order  him  'fore  us.    Quick! 

[EUSEBITTS  calls  in  SERVANT,  who  goes  to  fetch 

APODEMIUS.] 

You  counsellors, 

In  such  a  matter,  when  the  Roman  realm 
Shudders  in  earthquake,  play  a  peevish  role. 
Where  is  this  man?    It  seems  we  wait!    It  seems  — 
[APODEMIUS  enters.     The  guards  meanwhile  are  dis 
missed.] 
Tell  him,  Eusebius,  he  may  speak  to  us. 

APODEMIUS.  His  Majesty  's  obeyed,  the  tyrant  dead : 
Yet  in  the  extreme  of  haste  so  to  outstrip 
All  speed  of  rumour  and  uncertain  noise, 
That  first  the  fact  this  Royal  Highness  first 
Might  fully  hold,  I  not  an  instant  hung 
With  pen  or  style  my  duties  to  detail, 
But  straight  on  the  issue,  seen  participant, 
Springing  to  horse  and  spurring,  here  I  am 
Without  a  brief  and  only  fit  to  speak. 
Will't  please  his  Majesty  - 

KING.  He  has  our  ear. 

APO.  I  pass  how,  to  our  order  prompt,  we  rode, 
Barbatio  and  I,  hence  from  Milan 
The  long  and  wintry  way  hot-speed  across 
Venetia's  windy  plane-land  by  Trieste 


[140] 

And,  rounding  Caraganca,  east  and  north. 

On  the  ninth  day,  sunset,  we  did  dismount 

At  the  inn  appointed  at  Petovio 

And  straight  were  ushered  'fore  his  Majesty's 

High  cousin  Gallus,  Caesar  of  th'  Orient. 

Whom  first  we  reassured,  then  hand  to  hand  — 

He  tame  but  twitching,  and  with  sloven  eyes 

But  soft,  suspicious,  timid,  dangerous  — 

We  stripped  his  regal  robes  and  changing  clapped 

A  soldier's  shirt  and  cloak  upon  him.    "Quick  up! " 

Barbatio  said  to  the  man,  and  in  his  eyes 

Two  sparks  grew  big  and  died.    Then  all  of  us 

With  Leontius,  Lucillian,  Scudilo 

(The  last  at  the  whip),  in  public  waggon  drove. 

'T  was  bitter  dark.    That  night  and  all  the  day, 

Served  by  relays  and  weather,  rattling  past 

Celeja  and  Emona,  late  we  made 

Nauportus;   and  a  carcass  to  the  floor 

Could  have  no  dull-or-deader  slumped  than  I. 

I  slept  the  matter  of  a  night-watch,  then 

Sat  upright,  cold  awake,  a  crazy  scream 

Fresh  in  my  ear.    I  crept  to  Caesar's  door: 

Which  drawn  ajar,  I  heard  about  his  chamber 

The  man  astir  and  shuffling,  short  of  breath, 

Who  in  delirium  poorly  blurted  out 

Pieces  of  names  and  words, 

Awful  entreaties  to  a  swarm  of  ghosts 

That  steeply  wading  up  the  dark,  said  he, 

Uncoiled  their  arms  at  him.    A  moment  then 


[141] 

Cut  by  a  gasp  —  their  fingers  had  his  throat  — 
And  suddenly  over  down  he  fell  to  ground. 
From  embers  twinkling  on  the  foreroom  hearth 
I  lit  a  lamp  — 

KING.  O  finish,  Sir!  be  quick. 

He  was  a  —  Briefer  much!    I  say,  be  much, 
Much  briefer.    Ho,  proceed. 

APO.  The  morrow  come  — 

KING  [stamping  on  the  ground]. 
Proceed,  I  said.    You  hear  me.    Eusebius, 
Tell  this  impossible  man  to  say  his  tale. 

MER.  \aside\. 
He 's  very  troubled. 

APO.  Crossed  the  chamber  where 

Snoring  upon  their  straw  my  fellows  lay, 
The  door  then  pushing  aside  which  forward  sucked 
My  wretched  flame,  I  entered.    On  the  floor 
He  sprawled  and  opened  up  to  mine 
Unspeakable  bad  eyes,  his  flaxen  beard 
Red  with  a  gash  in  falling,  and  his  breath 
From  hollow  nostrils  hanging  white  and  full 
In  the  black  cold.    He  staggered  on  my  arm 
Back  fainting  to  the  truckle-bed.    Next  day 
Close  on  sunrise  we  rounded  by  Trieste 
For  Pola,  slackening  to  the  common  pace, 
For  he  was  sick.    There  on  the  second  morn 
Arraigned  before  ourselves  't  was  asked  of  him, 
In  th'  Emperor's  name  and  ceremonious,  why 
All  thro'  the  Roman  East  and  Antioch,  why 


[142] 

With  such  a  thrifty  hand  he  countersigned 
That  world  of  deaths.    Whereat  his  visage  grew 
Gray- white  and  glazen;   dizzy  to  a  chair 
He  sank  and,  near  distorted  with  dry  sobs, 
Blubbered  the  name  of  Constantina,  his  wife, 
WTho'd  pricked  him  on.    Barbatio  then  pronounced 
Death  on  him.    That  moment  in  our  council-hall 
Especially  despatched  Serenian  came 
To  urge  the  royal  haste.    We  seized  the  caitiff, 
Strapping  his  hands  behind  him;   flung  him  down 
Dead-faint  with  terror,  an  unfeeling  mass 
Lying  outstretched,  and  'headed  him.  —  I  saw, 
And  mounting  spurred  away:   in  proof  whereof 
Down  at  the  kingly  feet  I  cast  his  shoes 
Of  which  the  purple  heels  a  thousand  lives 
Ground  into  anguish. 

KING  [after  a  pause  and  slowly]. 

Dead!    Gallus  is  dead; 

Our  subjects  and  our  kingdom  and  ourselves 
Are  rid  —  [eyeing  APODEMIUS  and  aside]  he 's  surely 

speaking  truth  —  are  rid 
Of  one  we  nurtured,  loved,  and  lifted  up 
Beside  us:   but  th'  imperial  mind  and  blood 
In  him  grew  cancerous,  and  inch  by  inch, 
Even  as  I  feared  of  him,  of  others,  of  —      [A  pause.] 
[To  APODEMIUS.]  We  thank  our  servants  well;  a  re 
compense 

Remigius  from  our  private  fund  will  pay, 
An  hundred  aurei.  [APODEMIUS  and  REMIGIUS  exeunt.] 


[143] 
ABB.  [aside].        H'm!   Conscience-money! 

MER.  [to  ARBETIO]. 

You  say? 

ARB.  [to  MERCURIUS  carefully]. 

It  might,  I  say,  Sir,  have  been  less. 

EUS.  If  one  so  private  as  a  servant  speak, 
This  riddance  falls  a  miracle,  done  to  all 
By  your  own  Majesty's  most  reverent  self. 
More  shrewdly  planned,  more  wise  in  every  point 
No  measure  e'er  was  took,  and  managed  so 
Direct  from  the  Imperial  Throne,  amid 
What  trouble,  care,  anxiety! 

MER.  Indeed 

A  friend  in  office,  who  like  none  other  knows 
That  Syrian  region  where  this  hydra  raged, 
Writes  how  the  gladness  lighting  every  face 
Blazons  you  forth  in  hymns. 

EUS.  And  nearly  now 

Your  sacred  throne  in  undisturbed  repose  —     ^ 

[A  pause.] 

KING.  Ah,  nearly! 

EUS.  Nearly!  Would  the  truth  were  quite. 

QUEEN.  Your  drift,  your  meaning,  my  Lord  Cham 
berlain? 

EUS.  Not  without  counsel  'fore  your  Majesties 
I  broach  a  thing  yourselves  and  (God  knows)  we 
Distressed  consider.    Nothing  now  were  said 
And  my  mistaken  thought  forgot  and  gone, 
But  that  a  question  haply  put,  a  word 


[144] 

Here  dropped  and  there,  a  gesture,  showed, 
Alas!   not  only  I,  but  others,  nay 
Many  the  same  in  secret  had  revolved. 
I  mean  the  dead  man's  brother,  Julian. 

KING.  And  —  what  of  him  ? 

EUS.  What  say  you,  Arbetio  ? 

ARE.  A  studious  man. 

MER.  If  only  studious! 

For  study  then  he  left  Macellum  ? 

KING.  Left  ? 

EUS.  This  I'd  not  heard. 

MER.  Your  Majesties  remember 

By  their  good  pleasure  certain  years  ago 
These  cousins,  then  but  youths,  both  were  removed 
To  Cappadocia.    There  with  retinue, 
Tutors  and  priests  and  whatsoever  goes 
For  princely  education,  they  abode 
In  the  imperial  palace  at  Macellum, 
Free  surely,  but  too  young,  no  doubt  too  young 
To  roam  at  pleasure  and  —  enough!  — 

QUEEN.  My  Lord, 

Think  you  in  private  here  this  matter  needs 
A  language  so  obscure  ? 

MER.  Believe  me,  I  mean  — 

[To  the  KING.]  Well,  in  religion  did  your  Majesty's 
Blest  father  Constantine,  and,  following  him, 
Did  not  your  sacred  self  edict  and  write 
Yourselves  and  all  the  imperial  realm  of  Rome 
Christians,  followers  of  the  crucified  ? 


[145] 

In  the  which  spirit  these  cousins  of  your  blood 

With  care  were  tutored.    Certain  still  it  is 

Incognito  this  very  Julian, 

Seen  in  Nicomedeia,  heard  and  loved 

The  pagan  Greeks;  nor  only  churches  there, 

But  elsewhere  temples  oft  he  visited 

With  friends,  with  many  friends. 

BUS.  A  virtue  this 

That  nature  richly  gave  him.    A  mere  boy, 
He  wore  misfortune  prettily,  as  tho' 
Knowing  the  popular  heart;  and  walked  abroad 
With  modest  ways.    But  mine  is  harder  news. 
When  the  man  Gallus,  treasonable  and 
A  prisoner  by  the  common  judgment  damned, 
Still  unsuspecting  here  from  Syria 
Journeyed  upon  these  summons,  and  awhile 
Within  Constantinople  played  the  King, 
This  brother  of  his  there  met,  conferred  with  him  — 

KING.  Where  had  you  this  ? 

EUS.  Your  Majesty  — 

KING.  Where  had  you  this  ? 

Around  my  throne  I  feel  a  sea  of  snakes 
Rocking  their  heads,  and  struck  I  each  new  day 
A  score  of  them,  the  tide  still  hisses  in 
Snapping  its  poisoned  whips.    To  keep  alive 
And  steer  this  kingdom  forward  into  time, 
It  needs  a  thousand  eyes,  and  in  the  skull 
Brains  like  an  ant-hill.    So  then  Julian 
Talked  with  this  madman  and,  you  say,  conspired  — 


[146] 

EUS.  Conferred  — 

KING.  And  Gallus  came  —  he  surely  knew 't  — 

To  answer  justice. 

EUS.  Oh,  very  like,  altho' 

It  appears  he  knew  not. 

KING.  I  know  a  thousand  things: 

Rancorous  memories,  present  ills  and  fears, 
And  wicked  calculations  yet  to  be, 
They  talked  of,  whispering,  this  tricky  pair. 

MER.  They're  now  no  more  a  pair,  your  Majesty. 

QUEEN   [tO  EUSEBIUS]. 

'T  was  in  Constantinople  —  how  long  ago 
Say  you,  my  Lord,  this  happened  ? 

EUS.  Of  the  day, 

Tho'  my  report  in  nothing  specifies, 
'T  were  easy  reckoning  —  if 't  be  true  or  false. 

QUEEN.  I  'd  somehow  thought  the  prince  about  those 

days 
Half  way  to  Milan  here. 

ARE.  Indeed. 

QUEEN.  My  Liege, 

Rather  than  hang  in  this  uneasy  thought 
And  catch  suspicion,  say,  we  heard  the  man 
Here  now  himself  — 

KING.  Not  now. 

QUEEN.  For  ne'er  as  yet 

Yourself  have  seen  him;  scarcely  at  court  have  we 
Noticed  his  figure,  consecrate  it  seems 
To  dusty  books  and  dead  philosophies. 


[147] 

From  his  apartments,  neighbour  tho'  he  be, 
He  goes  abroad  affrighted,  gloomy,  shy, 
And  blinking  in  the  royal  light.    A  word 
Might  lure  him  to  us,  or  at  least  disclose 
His  deeper  thought. 

KING.  Not  now,  not  here. 

QUEEN.  Methinks 

It  ill  befits  our  Selves  and  ministers 
To  make  gossip  of  justice;  and  yourself 
Are  in  this  thing  distinguished  that  you  dealt 
Only  the  large  inevitable  Fate. 

KING.  As  far  as  in  us  lies. 

QUEEN.  In  whom  lies  all, 

Whom  all  regards,  of  whom  does  all  depend. 

KING.  And  so,  alas,  we  were  eternity. 

QUEEN.  Now  worthily  yourself  —  as  one  who  sees 
The  heart  of  things  —  a  moment  here  admit 
This  man  before  you.    Maybe  he's  a  thing 
Unfit  your  use:  well,  then  away  with  him. 
Your  purpose  lies  across  the  world  too  swift 
For  mean  distinction:  so,  away  with  him. 
But  if  he  Ve  stuff  to  serve,  obey  you  and 
Receive  your  orders,  here  a  moment  lost 
Is  wisdom,  justice,  prudence  and  yourself. 

KING.  Arbetio,  here,  approach  us. 

EUS.  [to  MERCuiiius  aside].  The  —  the  Queen 

About  this  thing  behaves  a  shade  —  what  say  you  ? 

MER.  'T  is  said  she  pities  him ;  and  then,  and  then 
A  woman,  childless,  young  —  but  not  in  youth. 


[148] 

ETJS.  You  knew  her  fancy  ? 

MEB.  I  ?    And  you  ? 

KING  [to  ARBETIO].  And  say 

We  ask  our  cousin  here  before  us,  on 
A  matter  of  high  concern.  [Exit  ARBETIO.] 

EUS.  Your  Majesty 

No  doubt  in  this  is  well-advised;  we  pray 
That  somehow  rumour  wrongs  him,  and  somehow 
He  will  assure  us,  being  a  different  man 
Than  was  his  fearful  brother. 

QUEEN.  Step-brothers 

Are  oft  alike  in  name,  nay,  brothers  even! 
Yet  in  our  cousin  't  is  not  himself,  the  man, 
Concerns  us,  but  the  manner  of  his  use. 
For  were  he,  as 't  appears,  a  student  merely, 
To  us  he  goes  for  nothing;   and  therefor 
We  see  him,  to  choose  amongst  his  qualities. 

MER.  Your  Highnesses  alone 
Can  judge  their  servants,  or  if  any  such 
They  wish.    Nay,  for  the  matter  of  his  faith 
He  might  indeed  be  pagan,  might  as  't  were 
Repudiate  th'  imperial  creed  — 

KING.  Is  this 

So  certain  ? 

MER.  Your  Majesty  mistakes;  I  say: 

He  might  so  be,  yet  none  the  less  subserve 
The  public  interest.    Further,  if 't  be  true 
As  't  is  reported,  he  in  private  held 
With  the  dead  criminal  his  brother,  why, 


[149] 

It  matters  less,  much  less  it  matters  than 
[Enter  ARBETIO  and  JULIAN.] 
When  Gallus  was  alive. 

JULIAN  [aside].  Was  —  said  he  was  ? 

To  sting  me.    Four,  five  vultures!    Many  behind 
Fly  croaking  up.    Beware!    It's  full  of  eyes. 
[To  the  KING.]  Your  Majesty  has  been  pleased — your — 
[As  he  bows  at  the  throne  he  sees  the  Ccesar's 
shoes.] 

Pardon  me  — 
Is  —  is  he  dead  ? 

[Looks  at  ARBETIO,  who  gives  a  sign  of  assent; 

guards  are  just  visible  at  the  door.] 
KING.  My  cousin  Julian, 

We  have  summoned  you  to  learn  — 

JUL.  [aside].  My  hour  is  come! 

KING.  First  how  the  Caesar  Gallus,  time  ago 
Complained  of  and  accused  day  after  day 
In  Syria,  Palestine,  in  Egypt;  cursed 
Here  at  my  throne  so  oft,  so  bitterly, 
By  soldier  and  civilian,  multitudes, 
It  seemed  it  rained  his  crimes;  and  finally 
Howled  out  of  Asia  by  the  hungry  mobs 
He  had  harried  into  frenzy:   him,  say  I, 
Our  court  sitting  in  judgment  heard,  and  damned 
By  his  own  sentence. 

JUL.  [aside].  They're  in  ambush  here 

To  choke  me  with  his  blood. 

QUEEN.  My  cousin,  come! 


[150] 

You're  dizzy,  sit  you  down.    The  dreadful  news 
Has  left  you  sick. 

JUL.  [aside].  A  woman  to  sweeten  it! 

QUEEN.  Recover,  recollect:  your  better  mind, 
Your  truer  mind  will  be,  like  us,  severe. 
It  is  the  parent's  pain,  it  is  the  ruler's 
That  mercy  fails  and  in  the  larger  end 
Justice  alone  is  good.    Bethink  you  now, 
This  man  your  brother  and  our  cousin,  raised 
To  sit  beside  us  on  the  Roman  throne: 
How  can  your  love  in  him  obliterate 
The  thing  he  was,  or  rescue  even  his  grave 
From  all  those  visitors  — 

JUL.  [starting  up].  Yes,  Madam,  yes! 

Out  of  the  dark  a  wiry  pair  of  hands 
Upon  their  victim  fastened  either  side 
Shake  the  breath  out  of  him,  and  hoisting  high 
His  pitiable  skeleton  in  the  wind 
Drop  it  away  on  some  black  shore  where  Ocean 
Shouts  a  damnation  on't  for  evermore. 

KING  [muttering]. 

Take  him  away,  he  is  a  spy  of  Night, 
Take  him  away. 

EUS.  Your  Majesty  desires  ? 

[Motions  to  the  guards.] 

JUL.  [aside]. 
Their  grips  contract.    O  God,  tear  out  my  soul! 

QUEEN.  My  Liege,  we  lose  our  purpose.   Had  we  not 
Some  questions  here  to  clear  ? 


[151] 

JTJL.  [aside].  Questions,  oho! 

KING.  'T  was  in  Constantinople  you  last  beheld 
This  man  of  wrath  ? 
JUL.  Even  as  you  say. 

[The  KING  starts.  EUSEBIUS  smiles.  JULIAN  con 
tinues  aside.] 

He  smiles. 
They  Ve  trapped  me  —  a  deadly  point  —  what  was 't 

I  said  ? 
KING.  Often  alone  you  saw  him  ?   Around  him  you 

had 

Friends  or  a  party  ?   What !    Th'  appointed  guard 
Approved  your  intercourse  ?    Answer  me,  Sir, 
Your  money  oiled  the  locks,  and  you  with  Gallus 
Compared  your  secrecies  ? 

JUL.  Money  —  and  guards  ? 

Foolish  or  mad  —  I  nothing  understand. 
'T  was  in  Constantinople  —  so  much  I  know  — 
Three  years  ago,  as  many  a  man  may  tell  — 

[The  KING  is  satisfied] 
Arbetio,  you  were  there. 

ARE.  My  Lord,  I  was. 

BUS.  In  days  more  recent  nor  so  long  ago 
As  three  years  since,  no  doubt  your  Lordship  knows 
Caesar  lay  in  the  city  ? 

JUL.  Perhaps.    I  know 

It  seems  a  thousandfold  more  years  than  three 
Since  last  I  saw  his  face. 

EUS.  Not,  then,  two  months  ? 


[152] 

JUL.  Gods  of  Heaven !  The  patience  of  the  sea  and 

wind 

Would  crack  like  glass  and  starting  up  the  air 
Draw  blood  from  heaven.    Can  I  go  diving  down 
The  muddy  fathoms  of  your  thought  ?    What  is 't  ? 
My  eyes  are  here:  why,  then,  look  into  them.  — 
I'm  lost: 

The  sun  there  sputters  on  the  verge  and  goes 
Whirled  off  in  ashes;  the  earth  swells  after  it; 
It's  night,  and  cruel  things,  talons  and  beaks, 
Dash  criss-cross  in  the  dark. 

EUS.  He's  wandering. 

QUEEN.  Open  the  window.    Spring  and    morning 

soon 
Will  charm   the   frightened   brain.    It  's   o'er.  —  My 

cousin, 

We  wish  you  nothing  ill.    A  rumour  told 
You  and  the  Caesar  in  Constantinople, 
Where  marked  for  punishment  he  there  abode, 
Two  months  ago  conferred. 

JUL.  Then  rumour  lies, 

And  for  all  petty  mention  and  regard 
Of  time  and  place  and  thought  and  day  and  hour 
I  speak  the  rough,  short  truth:   I  was  not  there. 
No  one  but  knows,  or  might  if  know  they  would, 
The  places  of  my  dwelling,  —  the  better  know, 
That  not  my  fancy  chooses,  but  the  will 
Of  mine  imperial  cousin  and  master:  whom 
Never  at  all  in  aught  I  disobeyed. 


[153] 

KING.  So  we  believe,  approve,  and  do  expect 
As  from  a  Christian  subject. 

JUL.  [aside].  Christian! 

MER.    [to  EUSEBIUS]. 

He  sticks  at  Christian. 

KING.  It  had  on  us  devolved, 

Child  that  you  were,  to  rear  you  and  to  instruct; 
And  at  Macellum  where  those  your  boyish  years 
In  gOod  seclusion  passed,  well  you  remember 
We  appointed  to  you  prelates  and  divines 
Of  that  True  Faith  whereof  blest  Constantine, 
My  august  father,  champion  first  arose. 
For  he,  we  after  him,  and  with  us  you, 
Abjure  the  foolish  gods :   our  throne  adores 
Christ  Jesus :  Rome  and  Christendom.  • 

MER.  [to  EUSEBIUS]. 
He  frowns. 

BUS.   [tO  MERCURIUS]. 

This  man  we  called  a  bookworm  hides 
I'  the  scabbard  of  his  mind  a  fearful  thought. 
I  '11  not  believe  it  stands  for  him  in  earnest 
With  baubles  of  religion. 

MER.  [to  EUSEBIUS].          So  say  I. 

EUS.  [aside]. 
'T  is  passing  strange. 

KING.  You're  silent,  answer  us. 

JUL.   Of  me  was  nothing  asked. 

KING.  You  're  trifling,  Sir. 

Of  old  it  seems  you  knew  Nicomedeia 


[154] 

And  from  Macellum  wandered  oft,  a  boy, 
In  her  downfalling  temples. 

JUL.   [aside].  Desperation! 

The  Christians  on  the  scent:  I  stand  at  bay. 

KING.  Is 't  true  ? 

JUL.  Macellum  ne'er  I  left  at  all 

But  by  your  order.    It  grates  me  to  repeat 
I  speak  the  truth;   and,  good  or  bad,  my  witness 
I  cannot  better,  not  I.    Am  I  a  skulk, 
A  beast  that  steals  at  evening  slyly  abroad  ? 
All  they  can  see  who  will,  [aside]  and  many  watch. 

KING.  You  visit  oft  and  travel  far  to  see 
The  ruined  shrines. 

JUL.  [quickly,  then  dreaming]. 

In  this  was  no  restriction 
Upon  me  made.    My  study  long  has  lain 
In  things  forgot,  or  nearly;   and  of  them 
The  shadows  lengthening  at  later  day 
And  spiritual  out  of  the  sun's  great  heart 
In  violet,  in  crimson,  and  in  gold 
Walk  the  forlorn  campanias,  to  the  sound 
Of  Homer's  hymns  in  order  filing  on 
Between  Ionian  columns  —  [MERCURIUS  smiles.]  Mer- 

curius, 
Did  ever  you  see  an  ape  ? 

MER.  My  Lord,  I  did. 

JUL.  They  grin,  they  chuckle :  think  you  they  under 
stand  ? 

MER.  No  doubt  your  Lordship  speaks 


[155] 

Of  the  philosophers  and  pagan  priests 
That  in  the  gardens  of  Nicomedeia  — 
Edesius,  Chrysanthius,  Maximus  — 

JUL.  Poor  courtier,  you  blaspheme. 

KING.  What  are  these  men  ? 

JUL.  They're  —  woe  to  them!  —  this  gentleman  has 

said  it: 

Merely  philosophers  and  pagan  priests, 
Who  in  the  brain's  high  nonsense  are  embarked 
On  seas  of  error,  wastes  of  speculation, 
After  the  quest  and  mirage  of  the  truth. 
Pity  for  them,  my  Lords!    Had  they  been  able, 
They  'd  vowed  their  vulgar  lives  to  better  ends, 
To  court  and  office,  manners,  money,  and 
The  brilliant  business  of  ambition; 
Also,  they  'd  long  abandoned  the  ancient  creed, 
Abandoned  long  ago  beliefs  that  —  they  'd 
Been  converts  to  the  new,  but  that  their  souls, 
Saturate  and  all  kneaded  up  in  one 
With  dull  ideals  of  an  extinguished  world, 
Live  in  them  and  go  like  drunken  mariners 
Bows-on  for  folly  and  th'  enormous  night. 
Nevertheless  in  them  I  keep  some  interest  — 
Pardon  me,  all !  —  I  stand  not  much  ashamed 
Of  talking  idly,  now  a  little  and  then, 
With  these  poor  people.    Alas,  your  Majesty! 
Let  me  go  back!   I  beg:   let  me  go  back! 
I  nothing  ask  of  life,  nothing  at  all 
But  what  in  the  divine  disposal  lies 


[156] 

Obscurely  measured  to  the  simple  man. 

I  do  not  look  to  climb  the  dizzy  rungs 

Of  power  and  victory;   suspicion 

Loses  her  time  about  my  lonely  life; 

I  have  no  skill  with  men;  the  worldly  art 

Crazes  and  irritates  me,  and  the  sight 

Of  all  this  complication  and  design 

Rubs  an  acid  into  my  brain  that  makes  me  — 

A  pantomime. 

KING.  We  '11  further  talk  of  this 

Another  time.    The  charges  laid  against  you  — 
As  kindly  we  foresaw  —  are  things  to  warn 
Your  farther  life.  You  leave  us. 

[Exit  JULIAN  slowly.] 

BUS.  [to  MERCURIUS].  Of  two  things 

This  man  is  one :   a  viper  that  belief 
Gasps  to  conceive  of,  or  else  a  simpleton 
Fast  going  mad. 

MER.    [to  EUSEBIUS]. 

He  may  be  what  he  seems. 

KING.  Your  presences  we  later  shall  require. 
From  our  infinite  realm  at  various  points 
Bad  news  of  war  and  insurrection  crowds 
So  thick  I  doubt  myself.    A  single  man, 
Whoe'er  he  be  and  at  his  own  self's  best, 
Recoils,  and  weakening  pitiably  cries 
He's  but  a  man. 

BUS.  This  cannot  here  be  said, 

And  Fortune  bows  to  Genius  on  a  throne. 


[157] 

KING.  You'll  find  our  counsellors  assembled:  they 

With  you  await  our  pleasure. 

[Exeunt  EUSEBIUS,  MERCURIUS,  and  ARBETIO.] 

Eusebius 

Alone  deserves  our  sum  of  royal  trust. 
QUEEN.  As  for  this  Julian  — 
KING.  Of  him  — 

QUEEN.  His  brain 

With  study  and  solitude  is  all  o'erwrought. 

He's  a  mad  child;   only  a  little  rest 

And  looking  leisurely  in  human  eyes 

Would  quite   restore   him.     The   stuff  and   fibre   is 
there 

That  you  should  use,  and  in  your  thoughts  alone 

Of  all  the  cunning  men  't  was  plain  to  see 

You  guessed  him  out. 

KING.  I  did,  no  doubt  I  did. 

QUEEN.  The  Spring 's  far  gone  and  Summer  comes 
apace : 

We  leave  for  Como.    What  say  you,  my  Liege  ? 

Your  sister  Helena  and  myself  can  take 

This  madcap  with  us;  we'll  have  Mercurius 

To  advise  our  action.    Near  us  he'll  betray 

His  way  of  life,  his  nature  and  his  hope. 

We  '11  make  him  ours  or  —  What  character  had  his 

*     father  ? 

KING.  I  knew  him  little;  speak  not  of  him, 
QUEEN.  Or  else 

What  is  to  'come  of  him  ? 


[158] 

KING.  Accursed  thought. 

QUEEN.  Then  trust  us  with  him. 

KING.  Take  him  away, 

But  hold,  but  —  understand  me  —  day  and  night 
Held  fast.    I  think  he  should  not  ever  escape. 


[159] 
ACT  II 

FRAGMENTS 


JULIAN.  .  .  .  there  singing  mends 

His  tackles  on  the  shore  — 

BEMIGIUS.  I'll  bid  him  stop 

To  trouble  you  with  his  noise. 

QUEEN.  .  .  .  but  that  it's  youth, 

We  all  had  youth,  but  not  all  sang  it  thro'. 

n 

QUEEN  The  rarer  gift 

Is  in  the  uses  of  imagination. 
Many  a  poet  or  philosopher 
Above  his  private  ecstasy  has  seen 
Venus  and  Truth,  but  from  the  sacred  mount 
With  inward  glory  silently  descended 
Too  selfish  or  too  poor  to  speak  a  word. 
Some  very  few  have  spoken,  and  by  them 
Humanity  reminded  to  herself 
More  truly  lives.    But  fewer,  oh,  how  much  fewer 
Are  they  who  crowning  inspiration  gave 
The  proof  and  grace  of  a  majestic  life, 
And  in  the  sordid  world,  the  press  of  men, 
Greed,  pleasure,  crime,  abandon,  passion,  death, 
Still  armoured  in  their  visionary  gold 
Did  human  deeds. 


[160] 

Rather  in  this  they  fail;  and  by  how  much 
The  flame  rolls  whiter  thro'  their  mortal  heart, 
Their  brain  more  terrible,  their  open  eyes 
Quicker  and  more  fantastic,  and  their  souls 
Strung  for  a  brighter  flight  among  the  stars, 
So  their  relapse  outdoes  disaster  —  as  if 
Genius  were  a  debt  of  Man  to  Nature 
Paid  alive  on  itself. 

JUL.  You  know  not  what  it  is  to  be  alone; 
You  know  it  not. 

EUS.  Oh,  God  forgive  you  this. 


Ill 

LATER  LYRICS 


PT  is  impossible  accurately  to  date  many  of  the  thirty-two 
poems  in  this  section.  It  is,  however,  extremely  probable 
that  none  were  written  before  the  publication  of  "  Dramatic 
Verses"  (October,  1902).  The  first  nine  poems  are  prob 
ably  earlier  than  the  remaining  twenty-three.  These  last, 
some  of  which  can  be  correctly  dated,  had  been  collected 
by  the  author  before  his  death  for  inclusion  in  a  volume 
which  he  intended  soon  to  publish.  They  must  be  taken, 
therefore,  as  representing  the  last  lyrical  expression  of  STICK- 
NEY'S  genius.] 


[165] 


LISTEN!   As  though  from  other  times  and  days, 

Continuous  and  one  and  hard  to  know, 

An  hymn  of  human  angels  very  low 

Drifts  o'er  the  ground  and  by  the  seashore  stays 

Ebbed  in  the  lonely  ripple.    Hush,  it  strays 

More  near  the  time  and  being  that  are  now, 

And,  as  together  with  them  soon  to  go, 

Sings  itself  further  on  and  on  always. 

And  it  will  come  to  pass  we  also  then, 

In  some  more  crimson  twilight  of  our  lives, 

Suddenly  in  the  choir  nor  knowing  why, 

Will  have  a  voice  within  us:  all  we  men 

Between  the  time  that  gives  and  that  deprives 

Take  up  the  theme  and  pass  it,  as  we  die. 


[166] 

II 

I  SAW  how  that  a  painter,  given  o'er 

To  love's  persuasion,  heeded  less  and  less 

The  voice  that  crying  in  the  wilderness 

Had  made  him  strong  and  lonely  and  obscure; 

Then  as  he  wandered  in  the  world  once  more, 

Upon  his  canvas  coloured  a  distress 

Of  dreams  and  fancy  dirtied  in  the  press, 

And  gray  descended  where  was  light  before. 

Wherefore  my  soul  in  suffering  addressed 

Her  question,  asking  if  these  lovers  e'er 

Had  laid  the  burden  of  themselves  to  rest. 

I  know  that  either,  smothering  despair, 

Had  turned  away  and  shed  a  dreadful  tear,  — 

And  notwithstanding  sought  each  other's  breast. 


[167] 

III 

WITH  long  black  wings  an  angel  standing  by 
Opened  his  arms,  as  had  he  a  lover  been. 
His  lips  were  very  cold  and  lingered  thin 
Along  my  lips  half -broken  with  a  cry. 
From  all  his  body  I  most  dreadfully 
Did  draw  the  cruel  cold  and  slowly  win 
Heart-ache  on  heart-ache ;  yet  f  gathered  in 
The  great  black  wings  that  stiffened  as  to  fly. 
In  that  embrace  it  seemed  that  years  of  pain 
Passed  very  slow,  and  yet  my  body  tight 
I  held  to  his  till  darkness  took  my  brain. 
Somehow  I  woke,  and  up  the  dying  night 
I  saw  him  spread  great  glittering  wings  of  white. 
I  knew  your  brow  was  cooled,  you  well  again. 


[168] 

IV 

You  are  to  me  the  full  vermilion  rose 

That  Love  with  trembling  arms  uplifted  crowned, 

Yet  moist  from  April's  irised  diamond, 

Queen  of  the  summer  over  all  that  grows. 

And  while  the  rings  of  petal  still  disclose, 

My  spirit  likewise  tenderly  unbound 

Falls  out  in  webs  of  shadow,  and  around 

The  mercy  of  your  beauty  finds  repose. 

And  often  when  the  airs  of  midnight  fail, 

I  dream  I  lift  you  skyward  all  for  me 

Into  the  moonlight  of  futurity, 

A  darkling  star,  a  quiet  nightingale 

That  wakens  in  my  arms  beyond  the  pale 

Of  what  I  was  or  am  or  thought  to  be. 


[169] 


THE  trees  and  shrubbery  glimmer. 

Lilacs  are  over. 

A  little  more  sun,  and  summer 

Will  glow  in  the  clover. 

Darling,  why  tarry  so?    Come  to  your  lover! 

I  have  played  alone  in  the  Spring, 

Laughed  at  the  flowers 

And  the  birds  that  nibbling  their  wing 

Perched  on  the  old  gray  towers. 

But,  darling,  the  leaves  cannot  stay  on  the  bowers. 

I've  tripped  it  away  with  your  shadow 

Over  the  grasses, 

And  stayed  where  a  breath  of  meadow 

Happily  passes 

Into  the  city  and  under  the  chestnut  masses. 


[170] 

VI 

A  GLAD  little  rift,  so  shy 
Back  of  the  boughs'  black  net, 
Shows  in  the  hurrying  sky 
Blue  as  a  violet, 
There!  —  but  it 's  all  blown  by. 

O  what  a  wind  to-day 

Playing  at  hide  and  seek 

After  the  pale  sun-ray 

That  slips  from  the  cloud, —  and  quick 

It 's  raining  over  the  way. 

But  I  know  the  winter  is  done, 
No  one  but  me!    I  know. 
Listen,  Lovely,  my  own, 
Where  under  the  melted  snow 
Softly  we  lie  alone. 

Open  the  darling  eyes, 
Breathe  of  the  early  air! 
My  heart,  if  the  weather  surprise, 
Will  shelter  thy  bud  from  care. 
Trust  me,  darling,  arise. 


[171] 

VII 

I  LOVE  thee  longer  and  I  love  thee  most  — 
Altho*  I  love  thee  always  to  the  end  — 
To-day  among  the  blossoms  lightly  tossed 
That  with  the  sunshine  blend, 

Below  the  bright  new  leaves  and  wandering 
Within  the  warm  and  lilac-laden  breeze, 
I  love  thee  most  this  only  day  of  spring 
Under  the  open  trees. 

This  thick  curled  hyacinth  is  all  for  thee. 
The  tulips  yonder  wave  to  get  a  smile. 
Make  them  as  happy,  love!    Ah  happy  me! 
Love  them  a  little  while. 

I  am  so  happy,  happy,  being  thine! 

There  draws  throughout  my  breast  from  backward  far 

A  lonely  highroad  up  to  the  sky  line, 

To  thee,  my  sunset-star. 

And  tip-toe  on  the  height  my  soul  looked  up 
With  asking  eyes,  and  softly  flew  away. 
I  love  thee  in  the  ways  of  Paradise, 
I  love  thee  most  to-day. 

The  sun  is  westering  in  thy  dark  red  hair; 
Let  me  throw  down  my  armful  here  of  bloom, 
And  leaned  on  this  acacia  let  us  share 
The  daylight  going  home. 


[172] 

And  suffer  once  that  from  thy  lips  I  drink 
The  livelong  happiness  of  our  to-day, 
Till  at  thy  feet  in  songs  and  prayer  I  sink 
That  thou  shouldst  call  me  thine. 


[173] 

VIII 

DEAR  and  rich  as  a  dawn  of  summer 
Over  the  sea  and  the  irised  foam, 
Out  of  the  past  a  bright  newcomer 
Into  my  arms  thou  wingest  home. 

Here  on  the  shore  with  wild  lips  parted 
I  lift  my  hands  in  quivering  prayer. 
Sunlight  is  thou,  and  thou  sunhearted 
Draw'st  bright-eyed  thro'  the  golden  air. 

All  the  days  that  have  tarried  sterile 
Burst  into  flower  and  lift  their  crown. 
Walk,  my  sweet,  from  the  past  and  peril 
Into  my  heart  and  lay  thee  down. 

For  nothing  of  life  or  the  days  I  wander, 
Myself,  hereafter,  before  or  now, 
Or  the  hour  I  save  or  the  year  I  squander 
Is  anything  any  more  but  thou. 

I've  pressed  thee  a  perfume  of  all  my  spirit 
And  jewelled  the  twilight  of  my  soul: 
O  my  darling,  anoint  thee!   wear  it! 
The  days  blow  by  and  the  seasons  roll. 

Come!   'bove  us  here  in  the  russet  heather 
Hold  thou  away  to  the  westering  sun 
This  bunch  of  grapes,  till  they  grow  together 
And  glow  and  globe  like  a  harvest  moon! 


[174] 

Then  we  11  ravish  them  for  a  greeting, 
And  look  so  near  in  each  other's  eyes 
I  '11  feel  thy  blood  thro'  my  bosom  beating 
And  sigh  for  my  all  of  life  thy  sighs. 

Nay,  and  here  are  my  lips  that  kiss  thee, 
Here  my  cheek  on  thy  bosom  rests; 
And  filled  with  light,  in  my  eyes  grown  misty, 
The  lilies  in  evening  of  thy  breasts; 

Here  is  the  cup  of  my  life's  full  measure: 
Put  thy  lips  to  it,  Heaven  of  mine! 
Thine  so  long  as  it  be  thy  pleasure,  — 
Were't  so  no  longer,  yet  always  thine. 


[175] 

IX 

AND,  the  last  day  being  come,  Man  stood  alone 
Ere  sunrise  on  the  world's  dismantled  verge, 
Awaiting  how  from  everywhere  should  urge 
The  Coming  of  the  Lord.    And,  behold,  none 

Did  come,  —  but  indistinct  from  every  realm 
Of  earth  and  air  and  water,  growing  more 
And  louder,  shriller,  heavier,  a  roar 
Up  the  dun  atmosphere  did  overwhelm 

His  ears;  and  as  he  looked  affrighted  round 
Every  manner  of  beast  innumerable 
All  thro'  the  shadows  crying  grew,  until 
The  wailing  was  like  grass  upon  the  ground. 

Asudden  then  within  his  human  side 
Their  anguish,  since  the  goad  he  wielded  first, 
And,  since  he  gave  them  not  to  drink,  their  thirst, 
Darted  compressed  and  vital.  —  As  he  died, 

Low  in  the  East  now  lighting  gorgeously 
He  saw  the  last  sea-serpent  iris-mailed 
Which,  with  a  spear  transfixed,  yet  availed 
To  pluck  the  sun  down  into  the  dead  sea. 


[176] 

X 
DEDICATION 

SOFT  be  your  journey  as  a  bird's 
Who,  feeling  winter  whet  the  air, 
Gyres  and  from  the  zenith  there 
Slants  infinitely  down  southwards 
On  outspread  wings 
And  sings. 

Within  my  bosom  blew  this  rose 
That  on  the  moonlit  autumn  wind 
I  toss  to  you  —  and  may  you  find 
Upon  your  pillow  of  repose 
The  flower  of 
My  love. 


[177] 

XI 

A   FLOWER 

As  kneeling  at  a  water's  edge 
Into  my  heart  when  I  look  down, 
Thy  face  uprising  from  the  sedge 
Lies  on  the  surface  water-blown; 

And  while  the  current  pushes  rings 
About  thy  cheek,  thy  chin  and  brow, 
I  muse  and  ponder  many  things: 
For  who  am  I  ?  am  I  not  thou  ? 

'T  is  therefore  all  these  idle  hours 
I  spend  alone  and  none  knows  why: 
I  see  thee  in  the  water-flowers 
Upon  the  current  doubtfully. 


[178] 

XII 
A   STONE 

WITH  burning  hands  and  eyes  all  dull 
I  bring  to  you  this  drop  of  fire, 
This  topaz  where  the  summerful 
Of  August  afternoons  expire. 

The  stone  you  gave  me  long  ago: 
A  meteor  from  your  life,  it  sought 
My  lonely  bosom  and  below 
Lay  glowing  in  the  gloom  of  thought. 

From  thence  I  took  it  pure  and  whole 
To  comfort  me  to-day,  and  found 
That  from  the  waters  of  my  soul 
These  bands  of  gold  have  drawn  around, 

This  little  setting's  nervous  art, 
Slow-formed  but  mighty,  made  to  hold 
The  sunshine  visiting  the  dark  — 
You,  darling,  that  my  arms  enfold. 


[179] 

XIII 
PARDON 

I  DREAMED  that  I  was  blind  and  you  were  mine; 

And  for  that  I  had  spoiled  your  better  part, 

Did  iron  shame  and  frenzy  pace  my  heart 

Like  wolves.    Yet  sweeter  ne'er  the  sun  did  shine, 

The  swaying  flowers,  the  colours  vespertine 

And  the  strange  quietude  of  human  art. 

In  my  dead  eyes  I  felt  the  water  start 

And  falling  down  I  prayed :  "  If  I  am  thine, 

That  here  within  thy  shadow  I  am  well 

And  live  so  in  the  nearness  of  thy  soul, 

Forgive  me  that  I  linger  in  thy  sight ! 

Forgive  that  up  the  cliffs  of  heaven  I  stole 

And  at  the  brink  seized  thee  and  with  thee  fell 

Backward  and  down  the  oceans  of  the  night." 


[180] 

XIV 
SERVICE 

CHIDE  me  not,  darling,  that  I  sing 
Familiar  thoughts  and  metres  old: 
Nay,  do  not  scold 
My  spirit's  childish  uttering. 

I  know  not  why  't  is  that  or  this 
I  murmur  to  you  thus  or  so : 
Only  I  know 
It  throbs  across  my  silences, 

It  blows  over  my  heart,  —  a  long 
Infinite  wind,  again,  again! 
Again !  and  then 
My  life  kneels  down  into  a  song. 


[181] 

XV 
CHESTNUTS    IN    NOVEMBER 


NOT  all  the  trees  are  done,  the  branches  mean, 

The  trunks  begrimed  and  sodden,  no,  not  all. 

How  fresh  and,  tho'  a  few,  how  prodigal 

On  yonder  chestnut  here  and  there  are  seen 

White  wisps,  and,  frilled  about  them,  bits  of  green ! 

They  colour  on  the  deadness  of  the  Fall, 

They  spring  and  with  the  'lated  swallows  call 

Happy  next  year  into  the  year  that 's  been. 

O  call  not  Nature  spendthrift,  and  of  these 

Say  not  they  bloom  in  error  for  the  frost ! 

The  sweetness  of  all  things  are  promises 

That  sing  our  souls  a  little  further  on 

Toward  that  which  may  be  found  in  what  is  lost, 

Which  may  come  back  again  of  what  is  gone. 


[182] 


ii 

I  ALSO,  where  I  stand  within  thy  soul 
A  plant  of  thine  and  growing  in  thy  year, 
Must,  if  the  season  turneth  to  the  sere, 
If  so  it  please  thee,  lose  my  aureole. 
Yet  tho'  my  leaves  to  the  last  one  should  roll 
Away  down  on  the  wind  and  disappear, 
And  I  should  nothing  question  but  the  drear 
Great  darkness  should  impenetrate  me  whole, 
The  midnight  in  my  eyes  would  ne'ertheless 
Not  firmly  hang,  but  sway,  and  breaking  shine 
With  thoughts  of  gold  and  stars  of  happiness, 
That  at  the  end  thou  mightest  repossess, 
Mightest  possess  again  and  further  bless 
My  sad  and  human  acres,  that  are  thine. 


[183] 

XVI 
FIDELITY 

NOT  lost  or  won  but  above  all  endeavour 
Thy  life  like  heaven  circles  around  mine; 
Thy  eyes  it  seems  upon  my  eyes  did  shine 
Since  forever. 

For  aught  he  summon  up  his  earliest  hour 
No  man  remembers  the  surprise  of  day, 
For  where  he  saw  with  virgin  wonder  play 
The  first  flower. 

And  o'er  the  imagination's  last  horizon 
No  brain  has  leaning  descried  nothing  more; 
Still  there  are  stars  and  in  the  night  before 
More  have  arisen. 

Not  won  or  lost  is  unto  thee  my  being; 
Our  eyes  were  always  so  together  met. 
If  mine  should  close,  if  ever  thine  forget, 
Time  is  dying. 


[184] 

XVII 

WITH  thy  two  eyes  look  on  me  once  again. 
Since  certain  days,  I  know  not  how  it  is, 
I  feel  the  swell  of  tidal  darknesses 
Climb  in  my  soul  and  overwhelm  my  brain. 

To-day  is  Spring,  I  know  that  it  is  Spring. 
The  new-mown  hay  about  the  lilac  bush 
Sweetens  the  morning  wind,  and  there  a  flush 
Of  roses  leads  the  garden's  offering. 

From  leafy  heights  of  chestnut  hang  and  play 
Long  webs  of  sun  and  shadow,  and  the  bloom 
Is  leaning  up  its  head  above  the  gloom  — 
White  in  the  happy  blue  and  yellow  May. 

And  all  the  air  sparkles  with  minstrelsy  — 
Fresh,  early  love-songs  twittered  wing  to  wing 
Over  the  dew.    O  loved  one,  it  is  Spring! 
With  thy  two  eyes  look  on  me  ere  I  die. 

It  must  be  thus,  I  knew  it  thus  would  be; 
And  it  embalms  my  soul  now  to  behold 
The  eternal  year  disclose  its  heart  of  gold 
And  whirl  in  petalled  clouds  about  the  sky. 

I  do  beseech  thee  here,  as  falling  down 
Before  thy  feet  I  render  thee  my  love, 
Look  on  me  now,  look  on  me  from  above 
As  tho'  in  heavenly  truth  thou  wert  my  own. 


[185] 

XVIII 

WHEN  bye  and  bye  relenting  you  regret 
All  of  these  possible  and  vanished  hours, 
And,  rolling  up,  the  certain  tempest  scours 
Your  sky  where  not  another  star  will  set; 
When  all  before  your  eyes,  no  longer  wet, 
By  life's  memorial  paths  and  fading  bowers 
Shrivels  the  remnant  of  a  thousand  flowers, 
Do  not  forget,  I  say,  do  not  forget 
The  long  and  lonely  hours  I  burned  away, 
The  lonely  days;  in  pity  do  recall 
What  miles  of  solitude  I  suffered  o'er. 
It  need  not  so  have  been,  but  you  did  say 
It  should  be  so,  and  I  replied,  It  shall, 
And  lo,  it  is,  it  is  for  evermore 


[186] 

XIX 
LONELINESS 

THESE  autumn  gardens,  russet,  gray  and  brown, 

The  sward  with  shrivelled  foliage  strown, 

The  shrubs  and  trees 

By  weary  wings  of  sunshine  overflown 

And  timid  silences, — 

Since  first  you,  darling,  called  my  spirit  yours, 

Seem  happy,  and  the  gladness  pours 

From  day  to  day, 

And  yester-year  across  this  year  endures 

Unto  next  year  away. 

Now  in  these  places  where  I  used  to  rove 
And  give  the  dropping  leaves  my  love 
And  weep  to  them, 

They  seem  to  fall  divinely  from  above, 
Like  to  a  diadem 

Closing  in  one  with  the  disheartened  flowers. 
High  up  the  migrant  birds  in  showers 
Shine  in  the  sky, 

And  all  the  movement  of  the  natural  hours 
Turns  into  melody. 


[187] 

XX 

As  pilgrims,  when  the  ways  of  winter  ope, 
Would  fain  behold  the  places  where  they  prayed 
Alive  with  violets  and  new  with  shade, 
And,  where  they  knelt,  a  golden  buttercup: 
So  strains  within  my  soul  a  wandering  hope 
To  see  how  brightly  now  are  rearrayed 
The  stations  where  I  saw  her,  and,  afraid, 
My  kneeling  life  was  lost  and  carried  up  — 
A  thing  that  in  the  praise  of  vanishing 
Did  like  an  incense  for  a  moment's  space, 
Burning  itself  away  from  what  it  was, 
Outsoar  the  elevation  and  outsing 
The  choirs  of  glory,  while  with  fragrant  wing 
It  veiling  passed  before  Madonna's  face. 


[188] 

XXI 

QUIET  after  the  rain  of  morning 
Midday  covers  the  dampened  trees; 
Sweet  and  fresh  in  the  languid  breeze 
Still  returning 
Birds  are  twittering  at  ease. 

And  to  me  in  the  far  and  foreign 
Land  as  further  I  go  and  come, 
Sweetly  over  the  wearisome 
Endless  barren 
Flutter  whisperings  of  home. 

There  between  the  two  hillocks  lightens 
Straight  and  little  a  bluish  bar: 
I  feel  the  strain  of  the  mariner 
Grows  and  tightens 
After  home  and  after  her. 


[189] 

XXII 

IF  tho*  alone  I  scarce  do  sigh 
Because  thy  spirit  stayeth  by, 
Think  what  it  were  if  thou  wert  near, 
If  thou  wert  here. 

Within  the  sweet-aired  mountain  town 
So  far,  so  strange,  so  all  our  own, — 
Why  makest  thou  so  long  delay 
So  far  away  ? 

The  waters  tumbling  make  a  sound 
Of  all  our  joys  that  fall  to  ground; 
The  stars  shine  to  the  uttermost 
Of  what  we  lost. 

If  some  one  only  happy  be 
For  this  our  narrowed  destiny ! 
If  some  one  draw  a  gladder  breath 
Out  of  our  death. 


[190] 

XXIII 

GRUDGE  not  that  I  so  long  for  thee, 
These  foreign  hours  within  the  land 
Where  every  day  brings  song  for  thee 
And  'fore  my  sight 
In  every  light 
Thou  dost  stand. 

I  ask  thee  not  to  follow  me 

And  leave  the  treasure  of  thy  soul, 

Nor  e'er  again  to  hallow  me 

With  the  surprise 

Of  thy  sweet  eyes 

Opened  whole. 

My  dream  shall  not  lie  heavy  on 
The  tender  region  of  thy  hope, — 
The  sunrise  of  oblivion 
Across  the  sky's 
Nocturnities 
Flutters  up! 

But  when  across  the  greenery 
Of  forest  tree  and  meadow  grass 
And  o'er  the  summer  scenery 
Sunlit  and  kind 
The  twilight  wind 
Comes  to  pass, 


[191] 

The  tears  arise  so  fortunate, 

The  heart's  delight  so  fair  and  free 

Alas  that  I  'm  importunate, 

If  yet  I  grieve 

Not  then  to  give 

Half  to  thee. 


[192] 

XXIV 

SPIRITS  that  might  have  been, 

Ye  birds  and  butterflies 

Under  the  showers ! 

Why  will  ye  ever  lean 

Your  weft  of  music  and  of  irises 

On  my  plain  flowers  ? 

Come  here,  I  pray,  no  more, 

Or  for  a  little  while 

Let  me  alone. 

More  honey's  at  the  core 

Of  the  blue  thyme  and  little  camomile 

There  further  on. 

The  sky  is  still  and  blue, 

But  changing  in  your  flight 

Flushes  and  sings. 

Then  do  I  crimson  too 

And  humming  gladly,  suffer  all  the  night 

Your  absent  wings. 


[193] 

XXV 
SEPARATION 

GOOD-NIGHT,  my  sweetheart.    Spring  has  come  again 
And  the  May  moonlight  strokes  the  rainy  trees. 
The  sky  is  fresh  and  happy;  fireflies 
Rise  in  its  azure  edge  and  wane. 

Alone  I  go  and  lay  me  down  alone, 
Yet  on  my  lips  the  sweetness  of  thy  breast, — 
Yet  on  thy  bosom  lay  my  cheek  to  rest 
And  fold  my  soul  forever  in  thy  own. 


[194] 

XXVI 
AT   SAINTE-MARGUERITE 

THE  gray  tide  flows  and  flounders  in  the  rocks 
Along  the  crannies  up  the  swollen  sand. 
Far  out  the  reefs  lie  naked  —  dunes  and  blocks 
Low  in  the  watery  wind.    A  shaft  of  land 
Going  to  sea  thins  out  the  western  strand. 

It  rains,  and  all  along  and  always  gulls 
Career  sea-screaming  in  and  weather-glossed. 
It  blows  here,  pushing  round  the  cliff;  in  lulls 
Within  the  humid  stone  a  motion  lost 
Ekes  out  the  flurried  heart-beat  of  the  coast. 

It  blows  and  rains  a  pale  and  whirling  mist 
This  summer  morning.    I  that  hither  came  — 
Was  it  to  pluck  this  savage  from  the  schist, 
This  crazy  yellowish  bloom  without  a  name, 
With  leathern  blade  and  tortured  wiry  frame  ? 

Why  here  alone,  away,  the  forehead  pricked 
With  dripping  salt  and  fingers  damp  with  brine, 
Before  the  offal  and  the  derelict 
And    where   the   hungry  sea-wolves   howl    and 

whine 
Live  human  hours  ?  now  that  the  columbine 


[195] 

Stands  somewhere  shaded  near  the  fields  that  fall 
Great  starry  sheaves  of  the  delighted  year, 
And  globing  rosy  on  the  garden  wall 
The  peach  and  apricot  and  soon  the  pear 
Drip  in  the  teasing  hand  their  sugared  tear. 

Inland  a  little  way  the  summer  lies. 

Inland  a  little  and  but  yesterday 

I  saw  the  weary  teams,  I  heard  the  cries 

Of  sicklemen  across  the  fallen  hay, 

And  buried  in  the  sunburned  stacks  I  lay 

Tasting  the  straws  and  tossing,  laughing  soft 

Into  the  sky's  great  eyes  of  gold  and  blue 

And  nodding  to  the  breezy  leaves  aloft 

Over  the  harvest's  mellow  residue. 

But  sudden  then  —  then  strangely  dark  it  grew. 

How  good  it  is,  before  the  dreary  flow 
Of  cloud  and  water,  here  to  lie  alone 
And  in  this  desolation  to  let  go 
Down  the  ravine  one  with  another,  down 
Across  the  surf  to  linger  or  to  drown 

The  loves  that  none  can  give  and  none  receive, 
The  fearful  asking  and  the  small  retort, 
The  life  to  dream  of  and  the  dream  to  live! 
Very  much  more  is  nothing  than  a  part, 
Nothing  at  all  and  darkness  in  the  heart. 


[196] 

I  would  my  manhood  now  were  like  the  sea. — 
Thou  at  high-tide,  when  compassing  the  land 
Thou  find'st  the  issue  short,  questioningly 
A  moment  poised,  thy  floods  then  down  the  strand 
Sink  without  rancour,  sink  without  command, 

Sink  of  themselves  in  peace  without  despair, 
And  turn  as  still  the  calm  horizon  turns, 
Till  they  repose  little  by  little  nowhere 
And  the  long  light  unfathomable  burns 
Clear  from  the  zenith  stars  to  the  sea-ferns. 

Thou  art  thy  Priest,  thy  Victim  and  thy  God. 
Thy  life  is  bulwarked  with  a  thread  of  foam, 
And  of  the  sky,  the  mountains  and  the  sod 
Thou  askest  nothing,  evermore  at  home 
In  thy  own  self's  perennial  masterdom. 

[1902  ?J 


[197] 

XXVII 

I  DREAMED.    Aye,  it  was  very  dark 

And  yet  the  cliffs  were  red. 

I  sat  me  down  hard  by  a  watershed 

And  watched  as  in  the  current  sped 

Spark  after  spark 

Down  the  dark. 

The  pine-trees  with  their  branches  hummed 

A  warm,  mid-summer  air. 

That  night  none  of  the  nightingales  were  there. 

A  cricket,  in  the  grasses  rare, 

Close  by,  benumbed, 

Sometimes  thrummed. 

I  leaned  over  the  water's  flight, 
And  where  the  foam  threads  whirred, 
Out  of  the  cataract  I  freshly  heard 
The  voice  of  an  alighting  bird; 
"  Come  down  the  night 
To  the  light." 

[1903] 


[198] 

XXVIII 

LEAVE  him  now  quiet  by  the  way 

To  rest  apart. 

I  know  what  draws  him  to  the  dust  alway 

And  churns  him  in  the  builder's  lime: 

He  has  the  fright  of  time. 

I  heard  it  knocking  in  his  breast 

A  minute  since; 

His  human  eyes  did  wince, 

He  stubborned  like  the  massive  slaughter  beast 

And  as  a  thing  o'erwhelmed  with  sound 

Stood  bolted  to  the  ground. 

Leave  him,  for  rest  alone  can  cure  — 

If  cure  there  be  — 

This  waif  upon  the  sea. 

He  is  of  those  who  slanted  the  great  door 

And  listened  —  wretched  little  lad  — 

To  what  they  said. 

[1903] 


[199] 

XXIX 
AN   ATHENIAN   GARDEN 

THE  burned  and  dusty  garden  said: 
"  My  leaves  are  echoes,  and  thy  earth 
Is  packed  with  footsteps  of  the  dead. 

"  The  strength  of  spring-time  brought  to  birth 
Some  needles  on  the  crooked  fir,  — 
A  rose,  a  laurel  —  little  worth. 

"  Come  here,  ye  dreaming  souls  that  err 
Among  the  immortals  of  the  grave: 
My  summer  is  your  sepulchre. 

"  On  earth  what  darker  voices  rave 
Than  now  this  sea-breeze,  driving  dust 
And  whirling  radiance  wave  on  wave, 

"  With  lulls  so  fearful  thro'  the  gust 
That  on  the  shapeless  flower-bed 
Like  timber  splits  the  yellow  crust. 

"  O  thirsty,  thirsty  are  the  dead, 

Still  thirsty,  ever  unallayed. 

Where  is  no  water,  bring  no  bread." 


[200] 

I  then  had  almost  answer  made, 
When  round  the  path  in  pleasure  drew 
Three  golden  children  to  the  shade. 

They  stirred  the  dust  with  pail  and  hoe. 
Then  did  the  littlest  from  his  fears 
Come  up  and  with  his  eyes  of  blue 

Give  me  some  berries  seriously. 
And  as  he  turned  to  his  brother,  I 
Looked  after  him  thro'  happy  tears. 
[1903] 


[201] 

XXX 

SONNETS   FROM   GREECE 

[1903] 

SUNIUM 

THESE  are  the  strings  of  the  ^Egean  lyre 

Across  the  sky  and  sea  in  glory  hung: 

Columns  of  white  thro'  which  the  wind  has  flung 

The  clouds  and  stars,  and  drawn  the  rain  and  fire. 

Their  flutings  now  to  fill  the  notes'  desire 

Are  strained  and  dubious,  yet  in  music  young 

They  cast  their  full-blown  answer  far  along 

To  where  in  sea  the  island  hills  expire. 

How  bravely  from  the  quarry's  earthen  gloom 

In  snow  they  rose  amid  the  blue  to  stand 

Melodious  and  alone  on  Sunium! 

They  shall  not  wither  back  into  the  land. 

The  sun  that  harps  them  with  his  golden  hand 

Doth  slowly  with  his  hand  of  gold  consume. 


MT.    LYKAION 

ALONE  on  Lykaion  since  man  hath  been 

Stand  on  the  height  two  columns,  where  at  rest 

Two  eagles  hewn  of  gold  sit  looking  East 

Forever;   and  the  sun  goes  up  between. 

Far  down  around  the  mountain's  oval  green 

An  order  keeps  the  falling  stones  abreast. 

Below  within  the  chaos  last  and  least 

A  river  like  a  curl  of  light  is  seen. 

Beyond  the  river  lies  the  even  sea, 

Beyond  the  sea  another  ghost  of  sky, — 

O  God,  support  the  sickness  of  my  eye 

Lest  the  far  space  and  long  antiquity 

Suck  out  my  heart,  and  on  this  awful  ground 

The  great  wind  kill  my  little  shell  with  sound. 


[203] 


NEAR     HELIKON 

BY  such  an  all-embalming  summer  day 
As  sweetens  now  among  the  mountain  pines 
Down  to  the  cornland  yonder  and  the  vines, 
To  where  the  sky  and  sea  are  mixed  in  gray, 
How  do  all  things  together  take  their  way 
Harmonious  to  the  harvest,  bringing  wines 
And  bread  and  light  and  whatsoe'er  combines 
In  the  large  wreath  to  make  it  round  and  gay. 
To  me  my  troubled  life  doth  now  appear 
Like  scarce  distinguishable  summits  hung 
Around  the  blue  horizon:   places  where 
Not  even  a  traveller  purposeth  to  steer, — 
Whereof  a  migrant  bird  in  passing  sung, 
And  the  girl  closed  her  window  not  to  hear. 


[204] 


EL  E  USIS 

HERE  for  a  thousand  years  processional 

Winding  around  the  Eleusinian  bay, 

The  world  with  drooping  eyes  has  made  her  way 

By  stair  and  portal  to  the  sombre  Hall. 

As  then  the  litanies  antiphonal 

Obscurely  through  the  pillars  sang  away, 

It  dawned,  and  in  the  shaft  of  sudden  day 

Demeter  smiling  gave  her  bread  to  all. 

They  drew  as  waves  out  of  a  twilight  main, 

Long  genuflecting  multitudes,  to  feed 

With  God  upon  the  sacramental  grain. 

And  lo,  the  temple  veil  was  rent  in  twain; 

But  thro*  the  rift  their  choirs  in  silver  train 

Still  passing  out  rehearsed  the  human  creed. 


[205] 


MT .     IDA 


I  LONG  desired  to  see,  I  now  have  seen. 
Yonder  the  heavenly  everlasting  bride 
Draws  the  white  shadows  to  her  virgin  side, 
Ida,  whom  long  ago  God  made  his  Queen. 
The  daylight  weakens  to  a  fearful  sheen; 
The  mountains  slumber  seaward  sanctified, 
And  cloudy  shafts  of  bluish  vapour  hide 
The  places  where  a  sky  and  world  have  been. 
O  Ida,  snowy  bride  that  God  espoused 
Unto  that  day  that  never  wholly  is, 
Whiten  thou  the  horizon  of  my  eyes, 
That  when  the  momentary  sea  aroused 
Flows  up  in  earthquake,  still  thou  mayest  rise 
Sacred  above  the  quivering  Cyclades. 


[206] 


II 

ART  thou  still  veiled,  and  ne'er  before  my  sight 

At  sunset,  as  I  yearn  to  see  thee  most, 

Wilt  thou  appear  in  crimson  robes  and  lost, 

Aloft  the  crystal  vapours  of  the  night  ? 

Is  it  the  rule  of  all  things  infinite 

To  trail  across  remoteness  and  in  clouds 

The  glory  of  their  sacerdotal  shrouds, 

And  shade  with  evening  their  eternal  light  ? 

O  travellers  abroad  the  mortal  plain 

On  weary  beasts  of  burden  overta'en 

By  the  unspeakable  hours,  I  say:   Press  on. 

For  tho'  a  little  part  be  hardly  seen, 

Hope  spangles  out  the  rest,  and  while  ye  strain 

Another  cloud  already,  look,  is  gone. 


207  J 


in 

As  now  my  ship  at  midday  passes  out 

Into  the  lonely  circles  of  the  sea, 

Thou  o'er  thy  southern  island  loftily 

Vague  in  the  light  appearest  like  a  thought. 

Over  the  blazing  waves  my  vessel  caught 

Continues  more  into  infinity: 

And,  as  adoring  I  look  after  thee, 

My  eyes  see  white  and  in  thy  place  is  nought. 

In  the  decline  and  speed  of  human  things 

When  time  drags  on  the  dreamer  by  the  hand 

Like  an  unwilling  child  and  reprobate, 

It  is  enough  if  on  the  parting  sings 

The  certain  voice  he  could  not  understand  — 

It  is  enough,  it  is  not  yet  too  late. 


[208] 

XXXI 
SIX   O'CLOCK 

Now  burst  above  the  city's  cold  twilight 
The  piercing  whistles  and  the  tower-clocks: 
For  day  is  done.    Along  the  frozen  docks 
The  workmen  set  their  ragged  shirts  aright. 
Thro'  factory  doors  a  stream  of  dingy  light 
Follows  the  scrimmage  as  it  quickly  flocks 
To  hut  and  home  among  the  snow's  gray  blocks. 
I  love  you,  human  labourers.    Good-night! 
Good-night  to  all  the  blackened  arms  that  ache! 
Good-night  to  every  sick  and  sweated  brow, 
To  the  poor  girl  that  strength  and  love  forsake, 
To  the  poor  boy  who  can  no  more!    I  vow 
The  victim  soon  shall  shudder  at  the  stake 
And  fall  in  blood:  we  bring  him  even  now. 

[1903] 


[209] 

XXXII 

IN   A   CITY   GARDEN 

How  strange  that  here  is  nothing  as  it  was! 

The  sward  is  young  and  new,  * 

The  sod  there  shapes  a  different  mass, 

The  random  trees  stand  other  than  I  knew. 

No,  here  the  Past  has  left  no  residue, 

No  aftermath! 

By  a  new  path 

The  workmen  homeward  in  the  city  twilight  pass. 

Yet  was  this  willow  here. 

It  hung  as  now  its  olive  skeins  aloft 

Into  the  sky,  then  blue  and  clear,  — 

And  yonder  pair  of  poplar  trees 

Rose  also,  soft 

And  sibilant  in  the  glory  of  the  breeze. 

It's  early  dark.    One  scarce  distinguishes 

Their  sullen  feathering  in  the  autumn  sky. 

'T  is  warm  and  still. 

Dull  o'er  the  town  the  vapours  lie. 

Innumerable 

And  dodging  the  uncertain  stare, 

The  small,  shrewd  lampions  dot  the  air. 

Many  like  me 

Loiter  perhaps  as  I  in  after  years, 

As  looking  here  to  see 

Some  vestige  of  the  living  that  was  theirs, 


[210] 

Some  trace  of  yesterday, 

Some  hint  or  remnant,  echo,  clue  —  some  thing, 

Some  very  little  thing  of  what  was  they. 

Sure  such  are  near!    Else  were  it  not  so  still 

This  evening, 

So  human-still  and  warm  and  kind. 

'T  is  as  of  many  moved 

In  unison  of  will  and  mind  to  sing 

Low  litanies  to  that  which  they  had  wholly  loved. 

i 
How  sweet  it  is 

Under  the  perishable  trees 

To  hear  the  wings  of  the  one  human  soul 

Fluttering  up 

In  Time's  dark  branches  to  the  lucid  stars. 

More  than  Despair  is  Hope, 

And  more  than  Hope  is  the  Hope  that  despairs, 

And  more  than  all 

Is  Love  that  disbelieves  the  real  years. 

Here  in  this  place 

One  August  morning  —  when  the  earlier  crowd, 

Showmen  or  populace, 

From  many  a  region  and  of  curious  face, 

Abroad  the  holiday 

Quaint  in  the  sun  with  garb  and  gesture  glowed, 

And,  speaking  grave  or  gay 

The  various  accent  of  their  lonely  race, 

Between  the  shadowy  gold  bazars  idled  away  - 


[211] 

She,  as  a  cloud 

All  sunrise-coloured  and  alone, 

Thro'  the  blue  summer  trembling  came  to  me. 

I  dried  her  tears  and  here  we  sat  us  down. 

Little  by  little,  as  tripping  oversea 

On  flame-tipped  waves  the  daylight's  long  surprise 

Sweeps  world  and  heaven  in  one, 

So  love  across  our  eyes 

Broke  with  the  sun. 

Happy  we  walked  away.    The  fairy  sight 

Untangling  shook  a  thousand  chequered  fires. 

Low  under  scarlet  awnings  rung  on  rung, 

Copper  and  bronze  and  azurite, 

Ranged  on  the  sagging  wires 

The  trifles  clinked  in  the  red  light. 

From  beam  and  niche  vendors  in  strange  attires, 

Slipping  dark  hands  along, 

Unhooked  the  quiet  wool,  the  gaudy  chintz, 

Or,  precious  where  it  hung, 

Long  fluid  jewels  of  auroral  silk: 

And  dryly  to  the  sense 

Their  attars  old  and  dusty  powders  clung. 

Still  passed  the  weavers  and  the  dyers 

Many  a  jar,  a  bowl 

Turned  as  of  water  or  of  milk  — 

Glazen  and  jade  and  porcelain  — 

Far  down  the  shadows  colouring  stole. 

As  one  had  shook  a  jungle  after  rain 

And  basketing  the  drops  at  random  spilled 


[212] 

Their  red  and  green,  their  topaz  and  sapphires, 

All  were  here  piled.  — 

And  wandering  out  we  smiled 

To  see  across  the  glowing  noon  so  high, 

So  high  and  far, 

The  incandescent  minarets  and  domes  and  spires 

Lifting  the  fusion  of  their  coloured  choirs 

To  the  sky 

Softly  —  save  only  where 

A  flag  or  pennant  fallen  slack 

Shotted  the  dazzling  air. 

I  came  to-day  to  find  her,  I  came  back 

Humble  with  sweet  desires 

Across  this  dun  September  atmosphere 

To  her. 

I  came,  I  knew  she  was  not  here: 

Now  let  me  go. 

I  came,  I  come  because  I  love  her  so. 

Not  in  the  acres  of  the  Soul 

Does  Nature  drive  the  ploughshare  of  her  change. 
It  is  not  strange 
That  here  in  part  and  whole 
The  faithful  eye  sees  all  things  as  before. 
For  past  the  newer  flowers, 
Above  the  recent  trees  and  clouds  come  o'er, 
Love  finds  the  other  hours 
Once  more. 
[1904] 


IV 

A   DRAMATIC   SCENE 
[1904] 


[AT  the  time  of  his  death  STICKNEY  was  contemplating 
the  publication  of  a  volume  to  be  called  "  Dramatic  Scenes," 
in  which  the  following  drama  was  to  have  been  included. 
The  title  has  therefore  been  retained. 

This  piece  was  begun  in  the  autumn  of  1903,  after 
STICKNEY'S  return  to  America,  and  finished  on  January 
28,  1904.  It  is,  therefore,  his  last  completed  attempt  in  the 
dramatic  form  of  poetry.] 


[217] 

SCENE:  The  living  room  of  the  Cellini  house  in  Via 

C ,  Florence.     A  crackling  fire  of  oak-sticks  in  the 

hearth.     GIOVANNI  CELLINI  seated,  and  his  daughter 
COSA  spinning;   later  his  son  BENVENUTO. 

GIOVANNI.  Has  he  come  ? 

COSA.  Not  yet. 

GIOV.  The  Campanile 

Told  seven  awhile  ago. 

COSA.  He'll  soon  return. 

No  doubt  Marchone  is  hurried,  works  him  hard, 
Or  a  late  client  rich  and  particular 
Puts  them  to  trouble. 

GIOV.  No,  Cosa,  't  is  not  that, 

Or  if  maybe  to-day,  not  every  day; 
For  every  day  he  lingers  and  retards. 
He  shuns  our  fireside,  he  no  more  clings  to 
Our  tedious  home  that  loves  him  all  too  well,  — 
Headstrong  and  hard  and  haughty !   Why  even  me, 
Me  that  begot  him,  poor  old  father,  me 
He  hates. 

COSA.        Father ! 

GIOV.  Deny 't ! 

COSA.  I  do,  I  do. 

GIOV.  Why  then  can't  he  at  evening,  since  he  knows  — 
I  taught  him  —  so  deliciously  to  run 
The  flute's  heart-breaking  scale,  so  tenderly 
To  use  the  grief  of  yonder  clarinet  — 
Why  does  he  grudge  me  ?    Oft  in  after  time 


[218] 

These  rough  refusals  and  discourtesy 
Cry  down  the  winds  of  thought,  and  one  by  one 
In  sobs  before  our  parents'  grave,  we  rue 
Our  sordid  sweetness. 

COSA.  No,  Sir,  no!  forgive  him. 

He's  rough,  is  Benvenuto,  and  in  nothing 
Would  pain  you. 

GIOV.  Why  then  refuse  me  so  to  play  ? 

I  'm  old  and  cannot  —  "  aged  and  unfit," 
So  reads  the  act.    O  Cosa,  't  was  a  stroke 
When  first  I  read  it  —  I  carry 't  always  —  here, 
Here  't  is !  we  '11  read  it  over  again  once  more : 
"Whereas 

"  Giovanni  of  the  Cellini,  one 
"  O'  the  tibiccus  or  fifes  to  said  republic, 
"  Is  aged  and  unfit  for  playing,  and 
"  On  his  age's  account  can  hardly  come 
"  And  every  day  appear  to  play  and  do 
"  Service  to  said  republic  as  required, 
"  Therefore 
"  They  have  deliberated"  - 

Here,  Cosa,  read! 
The  words  become  too  long  for  my  old  eyes. 

COSA.  Sir,  you  forget:  I  cannot  read. 

GIOV.  Well  then! 

"Deliberated  and  in  deliberation 
"  Have  carried  and  have  all  in  all  removed 
"  The  aforesaid  Giovanni  of  the  Cellini "  — 
Why  do  they  say,  I  wonder,  all  in  all  ? 


[219] 

"  From  his  said  office  of  tibiccu  or  fife 

"  To  said  most  high  and  honourable  Lords. 

"  And  because  said  Giovanni  is  poor  and  old, 

"  And  has  in  their  said  palace  service  done 

"  Years  six  and  thirty  well  and  faithfully, 

"  Wishing  therefor  him  somewhat  to  repay 

"  And  tend  his  age  and  some  support  provide, 

"  Therefore  have  they  decreed  to  same  Giovanni 

"  The  pension  alms  't  is  usual  to  give 

"  Players  of  their  said  palace:   pounds,  to  wit, 

"  Eight,  of  the  little  florins,  every  month 

"  During  the  said  Giovanni's  life." 

I 'mold, 

And  like  mine  unrequired  melody, 
My  part  is  over. 

COSA.  A  step  —  he 's  coming  —  now  — 

It  dies  away. 

GIOV.  Yet  he  detests  the  flute! 

Old  as  I  am  and  poor,  't  were  a  good  life, 
Tho'  hard  the  wages,  if  at  ending  day 
Good  music  by  the  candle  sat  —  and  his 
Outsings  by  far  Italy's  loveliest. 
I  taught  him:  down  upon  the  stops  myself 
I  held  his  baby  fingers.    I'd  divined 
The  perfect  flutist  in  him,  the  lip  and  hands, 
And  stars  of  music  in  his  big  blue  eyes. 
This  drawing  he  potters  o'er  at  weary  night, 
Of  groups  and  visionary  postures  framed 
In  scroll-work,  while  his  feverish  brain  upreared 


[220] 

Hainmer  and  tongs  descends  upon  the  ore; 
This  love  of  metals  and  design  of  forms  — 
You  think  him  sculptor  ? 

COSA.  Why,  father,  they  say  — 

GIOV.  They  say  and  push  his  obstination. 
It  happens  oft  our  children  misconceive 
Their  proper  genius,  and  how  much  soe'er 
We  pull  their  error  back  to  the  good  road, 
They  clench  the  bit  and  bolt.    He 's  a  musician. 

COSA.  Yet  in  his  fever — scarce  he 's  now  recovered  — 
Whene'er  you  spoke  of  music,  how  the  pulse 
Grew  flurried!   You  remember!  spare  him. 

GIOV.  Sure 

I  urge  him  to  himself.    He's  a  musician, 
And  proved  it  well,  when  in  the  Palace  Hall, 
We  fifemen  playing  before  the  Signoria, 
My  little  man  was  hoisted  to  the  book, 
And  straddle  upon  the  velvet  shoulders  of 
The  page-at-arms,  his  treble  played  away. 

COSA.  He  was  eleven. 

GIOV.  Ten,  Cosa,  ten  —  or  nine, 

But  ten  I  swear  to. 

COSA.  All  Florence  rang  of  him. 

GIOV.  O  what  a  day  when  the  organ  pipes  I  made  — 
So  full  of  angels  that  in  recompense 
Placed  at  Magnificent  Lorenzo's  word 
On  rushing  wings  they  came  tremendous  down 
Santa  Maria  Novella  —  how  there  they  sang 
On  Benvenuto's  baptism  like  a  choir! 


[221] 

COSA.  Sir,  played  they  at  mine  ? 
GIOV.  Come,  daughter,  in  my  arms. 

In  you  they  play  forever. 

I  love  to  hear 

An  organ's  fluttering  base,  a  languid  lute; 
To  hear  the  watered  silver  of  a  harp 
Pass  off  in  shower  throughout  the  melody; 
To  hear  a  viol  weeping  —  Cosa,  I  brought 
Some  old  sticks  homeward  yesterday  from  work: 
Go  fetch  them,  from  my  closet,  bundled  in 
My  blouse.  [Exit  COSA.] 

The  master-mason  said  to-day 
I  was  too  old,  clumsy  my  work.    Alas, 
And  Benvenuto  of  the  goldsmith  earns 
Half  what  he  might  at  music. 

[Enter  eosA.] 

COSA.  I  cannot  find  them, 

And  in  the  closet  is  nothing,  Sir,  but  clothes. 

GIOV.  Lost  then  perhaps  —  but  no !   Still  gainst  my 

side 

I  feel  them  pinch ;  for  weary  't  is,  the  way 
Thro'  fallow  fields  from  San  Domenico. 
I  got  them  home !  among  them  a  certain  piece 
Of  grain  and  fibre,  and,  by  my  knuckle  rapped,  so  true ! 
Lost,  no !  impossible,  for  I  hid  them  safe  — 
Good  Jesus,  by  the  chimney,  Cosa,  there  — 

[He  gets  up  from  his  chair  and  they  both  kneel 

down,  sorting  the  rubbish.] 
Some  of  them  in  the  firewood !   Where 's  my  piece  ? 


COSA.  Let  me  do't,  father. 

GIOV.  Ai,  my  old  back  and  knees! 

Where  is  my  piece  ?  the  candle !    O  Virgin  Mary, 
It 's  lost. 

COSA.     Here  5s  more  of  them. 
GIOV.  Yet  not  the  one. 

COSA.  Another. 
GIOV.  Show  me. 

COSA.  Look,  Sir. 

GIOV.  Love,  't  is  found, 

It  is  my  piece,  for  sure,  it  is  my  piece. 
Your  mother,  Cosa,  is  thrifty  and  virtuous, 
Good  housewife,  clean  and  good,  so  very  good,  — 
But  for  the  arts  her  talent  and  regard 
Were  ever  small.  — Up,  help  me,  daughter!  up! 

[He  gets  back  to  his  chair  and  sits  whittling 
and  singing  snatches,  while  COSA  resumes 
her  spinning.] 

My  chair,  and  from  the  table  drawer  find  me 
My  jackknife.    Look,  betimes  this  wretched  board 
In  growing  modulations  will  become 
Half  a  viola,  and  well  Luigi  said 
That  such  are  music's  silkworms. 

COSA  [aside].  Benvenuto  's 

Uncommon  late.    He  '11  not  come  back  to-night. 
GIOV.  She  lingered  by  the  river-bed, 

Dropped  on  a  knee  to  levy 
The  swimming  pitcher  to  her  head. 
Oh  it  was  heavy  ! 


[223] 

The  eyes  of  love  are  soon  to  fill 
And  quick  is  the  breast  to  quiver. 
A  star  hung  over  the  olive-hill. 
She  said  to  me  :    "Never." 
In  Campo  Santo  lives  a  grave 
I  and  the  moon  together  — 
/  and  the  moon  together  — 
I  and  the  — 

'T  is  always  so :  the  memory  of  a  song 
First  weakens  at  the  end  and  the  poor  singer 
Rushing  the  climax  like  a  stormy  bird 
Feels  for  his  voice  and  hears  it  die  away. 
As,  Cosa,  you  were  saying  — 

COSA.  I?    Nothing,  Sir. 

Giov.         Purple  anemone, 

Why  should  the  sunrise  April  morn 
Gild  and  bedew  thy  petal  torn  ? 

My  voice  has  much  gone  off,  and  by  degrees 
The  mellow  sureness  of  its  register 
Is  shaken  nearly  all.    I'll  sing  no  more; 
And  then  the  viol  throughout  my  merry  life 
I  used  and  cannot  play  —  the  absent  viol 
Quite  leaves  the  singer  homesick  and  destroys 
The  foliage  by  the  river  of  his  theme. 

/  waited  — 
[To  himself.]    This  timber  lost  —  't  was  pity  pitiful. 

I  waited  for  her  near  her  farm 
Close  up  beside  a  cypress  tree. 


[224] 

The  road  lay  white  as  linen  by, 

And  moonlight  made  the  meadow  warm. 

She  came,  and  as  she  came  the  air 
Against  her  laid  her  veil  and  dress. 
I  held  my  brow  for  giddiness, 
My  hands  for  fever.    She  was  there. 

She  put  her  finger  to  her  mouth 
And  down  thro'  olives  led  the  way. 
I  followed  while  the  bird  of  May 
Sang  down  the  branches  on  her  youth. 

Along  the  glade  of  dewy  dark 

I  breathed  her,  she  had  gone  before. 

I  ran,  I  heard  a  shutting  door  ; 

And  soon  the  farm-dogs  ceased  to  bark.  — 

Go,  silly  heart,  and  let  me  be. 
The  wind  will  show  you  round  the  hill ; 
Far  down,  the  river  turns  a  mill, 
They  say  beyond  it  is  all  sea. 

Go  where  you  will,  go  where  you  please. 
What  should  I  care  ?   My  heart  is  burned.  — 
Ah,  God,  if  only  she  returned  ! 
I  9d  cry  for  pardon  on  my  knees. 

[A  noise  is  heard  on  the  stair.] 
COSA.  It 's  he.  — 


[225] 

[Enter  BENVENUTO.] 
God,  brother,  how  you're  ruffled,  torn! 
Across  your  forehead  — 

BENVENUTO.  Hush !  give  me  a  dish  — 

Beans,  mush  —   What  have  you  ?    I  'm  hungry. 

GIOV.  But,  my  son, 

Your  forehead  's  — 

BEN.  Scratched,  Sir:  nothing.  Let  me  be. 

GIOV.  Cosa,  give  him  a  soup.  You  're  bleeding,  boy. 
Cosa,  a  sponge.    What  was 't  ? 

BEN.  I  said,  Sir,  nothing. 

GIOV.  A  scuffle  ? 

BEN.  No. 

GIOV.  Come  tell  me. 

BEN.  What  ? 

GIOV.  You  fought  — 

BEN.  Why,  yes,  I  fought.    What  oft? 

GIOV.  With  whom,  I  say  ? 

BEN.  With  Piero  Torregiani. 

GIOV.  Him?   What  for? 

BEN.  For  nothing. 

GIOV.  Come  — 

BEN.  Why  — 

GIOV.  Come,  you  quarrelled:  why? 

BEN.  He  scoffed  — 

GIOV.  At  you. 

BEN.  No,  not  at  me. 

GIOV.  Not  you  ? 

Who  then  ? 


BEN.  He  jeered  at  Michael  Angelo. 

GIOV.  God  help  us!  fight  for  Michael  Angelo! 
He's  mad. 

BEN.          Give  me  my  soup. 

GIOV.  How  happened  it  ? 

A  son  who  in  the  lanes  of  Florence  walks 
With  boiling  fist  for  Angelo,  who,  gorged 
With  Papal  florins,  grandly  lives  in  Rome! 
What  was 't  that  Piero  said  ?    What  was 't  ? 

BEN.  He  said  — 

No,  no,  enough,  I'm  sick  oft.    Let  me  be. 
I'm  mad,  you  say,  Sir:  let  me  grind  alone 
And  turn  my  knuckles  in  the  granite.    Yes, 
He  scoffed  at  Michael  Angelo,  and  I 
Nailed  him  a  crash  between  his  yellow  eyes. 

GIOV.  But  why  ?  why,  Benvenuto  ? 

COSA.  Brother,  here's 

Your  pot  of  soup;  and  now  the  water  's  warm 
I  '11  sponge  your  bloody  forehead.    Sit  you  down  — 
Come  quietly,  now  come  and  tell  us. 

BEN.  Well, 

We  walked,  Piero  and  I  —  I  hate  the  man 
And  smell  him  like  a  pestilence  —  I  walked 
Down  Via  Larga,  where  from  the  Palace  I 
With  certain  drawings  came.  —  No,  I  've  enough. 

COSA.  And  then  — 

BEN.  And  there  the  splendid  man, 

Tall,  beautiful,  and  under  shaggy  brows 
A  flash  he  clips  with  blinking  —  you  'd  have  said 


[227] 

A  soldier,  not  a  sculptor,  but  he  carves 
For  them  in  England,  and  is  now  returned 
To  catch  some  poor  Italian  prentices 
For  export  —  me  he  baited,  for  a  time, 
But  he  '11  return  without,  if  he  return. 

GIOV.  He 's  dead  ? 

BEN.  I  wish  so  - —  only  a  little  more  — 

COSA.  On  Via  Larga  —  come  — 

BEN.  He  met  me,  and 

"  That  scroll  there,"  asked  the  glory  of  his  voice, 
"Are  drawings?"  "So,"  said  I;  and  he,  "What  of?" 
I  pulled  him  to  the  Duomo  steps.  —  You  know 
'T  was  given  out  a  fresco  be  designed 
For  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  picturing 
How  Pisa  was  besieged  by  Florentines. 
And  master  Leonardo  worked  to  purpose: 
Before  the  walls  and  puffing  sky  of  cloud 
A  skirmish  thrills  the  plain  —  hot  work  and  high; 
The  horses  rear,  the  riders  shining  up 
To  lunge  with  sword  or  battleaxe;  one  down, 
Another  falling,  all  constrained  and  each 
Alive,  —  with  certain  seizure  and  defence 
Of  gonfalons  afloat  on  tufted  plumes 
As  ravishes  the  sight. 

GIOV.  I  saw  the  thing, 

I  was  a  draughtsman  once.    It  is  an  art  — 

COSA.  Was  there  another  ? 

BEN.  Michael  Angelo's. 

A  human  hand  can  cast  no  further. 


[228] 

It  is  a  summer's  day,  and  Arno  lies 
Languid  throughout  the  picture.    In  it  bathe 
A  pack  of  footsoldiers  which  on  the  instant 
Hear  an  alarm:  the  swimming  strain  for  shore, 
Some  with  uneasy  arms  are  wading,  others  fall 
Or  splashing  catch  pieces  of  jutting  turf, 
While  clear  upon  the  bank  the  nimble  ones 
Run  swift  and  naked  to  repairs  of  armour 
And  weapons  stacked  in  file  over  the  plain. 
Such  grouped  and  quick  variety!  So  full, 
Muscular  and  harmonious!   Such  relief 
Of  flesh  and  surface!    It  enlarged  my  eyes 
With  wonder  and  my  brain  with  ecstasy.  — 
Bread,  Cosa,  and  another  flask  of  wine. 

GIOV.  Was  this  your  brawl  with  Piero  ? 

BEN.  Good  father, 

I'd  copied  this  design  of  Buonarroti's, 
And  to  Piero  unrolled  my  drawing.    He 
With  puckered  nose  said,  looking:   "Michael  was 
"  My  schoolmate :  we  together  learned  to  draw 
"  Of  Fra  Filippo  in  the  Carmine. 
"  He  has  a  nose  remembers  me !   He  used 
"  To  hawk  and  whistle  at  our  scrawls,  to  say : 
" '  Your  hero  'd  best  keep  seated  or  his  thighs 
" '  Would,  one  jostle  his  heart,  the  other  pull 
"  *  His  hip-bone  to  the  knee;'  or  '  Cupid  there 
"  *  High  up  weighs  fifty  tons :  if  he  should  fall 
"  *  O  woe  unto  the  dwellers  of  the  plain!' 
"  *  One  day  I  stomached  him  no  more.    He  peered 


[229  ] 

"  Over  me  at  my  board:  'That  spider-web5  — 

"  I  'd  drawn  a  woman  running.    At  the  word, 

"  Sprung  up  I  shot  my  knuckles  at  his  nose. 

"  Consult  it  for  my  aim."    He  snickered,  but 

Inside  my  brain  it  swam  like  fumes  of  hell. 

I  leaned  into  his  face  and  shouted :  "  Cur, 

"You  broke  it  ?"    "Little  boy,"  he  said,    We  fought. 

'T  was  ugly  doing.    I  caught  him  full,  tho',  when 

He  fumbled  for  his  knife;   but  from  the  crowd 

That  screamed  and  thickened  round  us,  certain  friends 

O'erpowering  shouldered  him  delirious  home. 

He  fought  me  well. 

COSA.  You're  wounded,  brother? 

BEN.  No. 

The  scurvy  fool !  the  braggart !   I  'd  as  lief 
See  adders  rear  out  of  my  folded  arms 
As  that  man's  face  again. 

GIOV.  This  for  my  son! 

BEN.  But  I  was  hungry!  There,  I've  eat  enough! 
Cosa,  give  me  my  board  and  pencils.  'T  should  be  late 
And  father's  bed-time. 

[COSA  gets  him  his  drawing  tools.  BENVENUTO 
then  works  at  the  table  while  GIOVANNI  goes 
on  whittling  and  humming.] 

GIOV.  At  the  jeweller 

Marchoni's,  any  work  in  prospect  ? 

BEN.  Much. 

And  of  myself  a  buckle  in  good  gold 
Is  ordered.    I've  a  posture  in  my  eyes 


[230] 

Of  Sirens  interlaced  with  golden  scales 
Roughing  a  silver  ground.    Leave  me  alone. 
This  candle  gutters. 

GIOV.  Son,  do  you  remember 

The  ending  of  the  song  —  for  I  forget : 
In  Campo  Santo  is  a  grave 
I  and  the  moon  together  — 
I  hear  the  rest,  but  like  an  echo,  gone  — 
Or  going  from  the  gateways  of  my  voice. 
BEN.  [sings]. 

In  Campo  Santo  is  a  grave 
Where  I  and  the  moon  together 
Go  linger  oft  and  cannot  leave 

Tho'  dawn  be  in  the  weather. 
Oh,  let  me  hold  her  in  my  arms. 
Cold  tho'  she  be,  there  let  her  languish. 
Only  her  kiss  of  death  can  warm 

The  snow-fields  of  my  anguish. 
GIOV.  [aside]. 
That  voice  and  singing] 

BEN.  How  supple  is  the  strength 

That  coils  the  rondure  of  a  Siren's  tail ! 
It  lies  within  the  fine  imagination 
Of  them  of  old  to  shape  their  legend  so 
That  monsters  have  position  in  the  realm 
Of  strict  anatomy  and  reasoned  things.  — 
The  frame  is  square. 

GIOV.  [looks  at  him  for  a  while  in  silence  and  then 
:]  O  my  beloved  son! 


[231] 

I  was  a  hand  at  draughting,  I  have  worked 
At  stone  and  trowel  all  these  many  years  — 
Hard  work,  to  give  my  little  children  bread. 
Then,  in  repayment  of  my  weariness, 
To  freshen  the  fatigue,  that  day  by  day 
Added  at  last  now  makes  me  an  old  man  — 
For  see,  my  tenor  quavers  and  my  hand 
Can't  steer  the  knife  to  purpose  on  this  wood  — 
The  master-mason  said  to-day  my  work 
Was  bad  and  he  'd  employ  my  age  no  more  — 
I  laboured  most  for  you:  then  promise  me 
You'll  not  forget  and  still  practise  sometimes 
The  flute  I  played  at  evening  for  repose 
And  taught  you  with  my  love  in  weariness. 
I  loved  you,  taught  you,  gave  you  all  myself. 
Music  and  singing  were  my  joy,  and  you 
Were  to  be  my  musician;  but  you  turned 
To  another  art  —  rightly,  I  say  not  no, 
But  yet  remember  music  —  let  me  hear 
The  crying  of  thy  mellow  flute  once  more, 
Or  sing  to  me  as  always  thou  hast  sung 
Since  when  I  showed  thee  how  upon  my  knee. 

COSA   [to  BENVENUTO]. 

Love,  humour  him. 

BEN.  I  will  not. 

GIOV.  Benvenuto, 

It  is  not  much  to  give  thy  father  back 
A  fluteful  of  his  breath,  to  tender  him 
Across  the  early  morning  of  thy  voice 


[232] 

A  song's  worth  of  delicious  gaiety. 
You  know  not  —  you  cannot  know  — 
You  know  not  what  it  is  to  hear  aloud 
Within  the  walls  of  age  and  poverty 
Your  singing  child,  alive,  alert,  and  full 
Of  small  perfections  in  the  art  you  love. 
We  artisans  are  jealous,  and  to  give 
The  secret  of  our  art  is  to  give  all. 
I  gave  you  all  my  music  —  play  to  me 
As  only  you  can  play  —  a  little  now, 
For  you  and  music  are  my  evening-stars. 

COSA.  Brother! 

BEN.  Take  off  your  arms. 

GIOV.  Then  let  it  be. 

COSA.  He's  crying. 

BEN.  Let  him. 

COSA.  Madonna,  pardon  him! 

GIOV.  Well  then,  to  bed.    Good-night. 

BEN.  [to  COSA].  Give  me  my  flute, 

Give  me  the  cursed  thing;  you  know  the  words. 

COSA  [aside]. 
He  might  have  asked  some  other  song  of  me! 

When  first  my  eyes  there.,  in  the  shadow  of  the  meadow,  saw 

my  God, 
Like  the  lightning,  thin  and  narrow,  ran  the  arrow  thro?  my 

blood. 
Tho*  I  struggled,  yet  I  could  not,  yet  I  would  not  look 

away, 
Asked  his  mercy  to  accept  me  or  reject  me,  as  he  say. 


[233] 

/  gave  him  nothing,  the?  what  could  I  of  my  duty  give  him 

more  ? 

Gave  him  little  tho'  I  suffered  all  I  offered  at  his  door; 
I  gave  him  nothing  freely,  fully,  for  't  was  all  I  was  or  had, 
Gave  him  every  thought  and  breath  and  life  and  death  and 

wine  and  bread. 

O  Virgin  Mary,  in  the  awaking  of  the  breaking  Day  of  pain, 
If  he's  tired,  let  him  rest  and  me  be  questioned  for  us  twain. 

0  let  me  save  him,  earn  his  blessing,  me  redress  him  in  the 

sod. 
Love  can  smother  hell  and  hover  with  her  lover  up  to  God. 

BEN.  There! 

GIOV.      O  bless  you,  dear  musician !  That 's  my  son. 
What  sound  —  you  noticed,  Cosa  —  tempered  with 
Sweet  doubts  and  sweeter  hurries.    As  I  fall 
From  aged  weariness  away  to  sleep, 
Your  smooth  and  sad  cadenzas,  Benvenuto, 
Will  star  my  dreams. 

BEN.  Good-night,  Sir;  Cosa,  good-night. 

[Exeunt  GIOVANNI  and  COSA.] 
This  fluid  music  clouds  me  with  a  slag. 

1  cannot  see.    My  fluttering  head  and  hand 
No  more  are  with  the  metals,  and  the  lines 
Go  one  into  the  other  like  threads  of  wool. 
Among  the  many  arts  the  lowest  much 

Is  music :  which  with  pitiable  means 
Is  scraped  and  blown  and  twanged  and  —  no  one 
knows 


[234] 

How  or  what  for.    O  curse  on't.    To  work. 
I  can't  —  must  —  will. 

GIOV.  [looks  in  at  the  door  in  his  nightgown]. 

That  song,  another  time, 
Not  quite  so  fast,  and  your  beginning  notes 
%Less  sudden  and  attacked  with  subtler  breath. 

[Exit  GIOVANNI.] 

BEN.  If  e'er  I  play  again ! 

He  pushes  me 

So  every  evening  to  the  rack.    Great  God, 
The  very  rhythm  of  my  design  is  snapped 
At  the  root  short-off,  just  at  the  noble  moment 
When  dream  and  comprehension  fuse  in  one. 
I'll  wreck  my  greatness  here,  only  to  please 
My  father's  whim.    It  stings  patience.    I  —  yes  — 
And  here  over  my  ruined  vision,  I 
Writhe  like  a  scorpion  in  a  ring  of  fire. 
Florence  is  not  for  me.    I  will  abroad 
And  slake  my  rankling  thirst  for  the  great  world, 
For  liberty,  myself  and  what  I  am: 
Enough!   At  dawn  to-morrow  off  for  Rome. 


JUVENILIA 


[THE  following  section  consists  exclusively  of  poems  written 
before  the  publication  of  "Dramatic  Verses"  (October, 
1902).  Fortunately  it  has  been  possible  accurately  to  date 
most  of  these  poems,  which  illustrate,  in  a  very  brief  and 
summary  fashion,  the  early  stages  of  STICKNEY'S  poetic 
growth.] 


[239] 


ART   IN   MAN 

I  HEARD  a  strange  philosophy,  which  taught 
The  Art  is  Man,  the  Artist  is  his  Art; 
That  Poetry  lives  fleshly  in  the  heart 
Of  poets,  and  mechanic  in  their  thought. 
And  then,  as  oft  before  some  ruined  shrine 
I  have  seen  the  pious  man  stand  awed  and  pale, 
So  I,  to  see  my  heart's  ideal  trail 
In  dust  and  grey  in  ashes,  once  divine. 
Yet  came  the  Spring,  and  o'er  the  fleetness  ran 
A  breath  of  song,  a  subtle  fire,  a  life, 
A  voice :  Say  not  the  sum  of  things  is  man ; 
For  like  the  wave-rolled  spiral  shell  is  he, 
Wherein  a  vaster  voice  rings  rich  and  rife  — 
A  shadowy  murmur  of  the  parent  sea. 
[1892] 


[240] 

II 
MUSIC 

THE  air  breaks  into  flutters  low  and  sweet, 
Smooth  as  the  liquid  passage  of  the  bird; 
And  as  the  ocean-murmur,  faintly  heard 
Before  the  storm,  its  rippling  echoes  beat 
The  ear.    But  then  with  swifter,  bolder  feet 
The  message  comes;  the  music  stirs  the  heart 
To  wild  pulsations,  until  every  part 
Is  glowing,  fervid  with  a  throbbing  heat. 
Slowly  the  memories  of  the  past  then  rise 
In  pallid  glory;  richer  streams  of  sound, 
Wild  with  mysterious  truth,  all  cloudlike,  roll 
About  the  heart  and  flood  with  tears  the  eyes: 
But  then  a  silence,  stern,  abrupt,  profound: 
A  vaster  echo  trembles  in  the  soul! 

[1892] 


[241] 

III 
NIGHT 

GREAT  night!  no  soothing  friend  to  pain  thou  art, 

Whereto  a  stricken  soul  may  pour  its  grief. 

To  thee  these  human  sorrows  be  too  brief 

To  wake  the  pulse  of  thine  eternal  heart. 

Thy  powers  are  dead;   and  sterner  peace  impart 

The  silences  of  thy  vast  eloquence. 

Our  reason  fails;   our  minds  succumb,  too  tense 

To  act;  ourselves  grow  fragile,  part  by  part. 

So  when  thy  pale  infinitudes  unfold 

Their  vastness,  and  th'  eternal  harmonies, 

Threading  their  labyrinthine  paths  of  gold, 

Break  on  the  vision  with  a  sudden  sting, 

The  soul  is  loosed,  and  in  the  boundless  skies 

A  dazzling  light  uprises  on  her  wing. 

[1892] 


[242] 

IV 
EVENING 

A     STUDY     IN     METRE 

SUMMER  is  sweet, 
In  the  air  of  the  tepid  night, 

In  the  drowsy  breeze, 

In  the  blossoming  trees;  — 

Summer  is  sweet 

With  its  scented  heat 
And  the  lazy  hours  that  ease 

Every  heart 
From  the  toil  of  the  day's  hot  light 

And  ceaseless  throes, 

With  their  pale  repose. 

Every  heart 

Sips  of  its  part 
Of  the  love  that  summer  bestows. 

Laggard  and  sweet, 
The  evening  glides  on  its  way; 

And  the  glistening  star 

From  the  eastern  bar, 

Laggard  and  sweet, 

With  golden  feet, 
Climbs  stilly  the  skies  from  afar. 


[243] 

Liquid  and  light, 
A  tremulous  harmony  sings 

O'er  the  sleepy  guitar 

Its  reverberate  bar, 

Liquid  and  light, 

To  the  moon-paled  night, 
And  the  love  of  the  glistening  star. 

Heavy  perfumes 
From  the  vine  that  grows,  clambering  still, 

Wondrous  and  fair 

On  the  trellis'  tall  stair,— 

Heavy  perfumes, 

Through  the  moonlit  glooms, 
Drift  away  from  her  purple  hair. 

Night  rustles  late 
Through  the  trees  with  a  measured  tread; 

And  the  late,  late  word 

Have  the  gold  stars  heard; 

Night  rustles  late 

To  the  eastern  gate, 
By  the  goad  of  the  east-light  spurred. 

Swift  are  the  hours 

Now  sped  on  their  dusk-feathered  wing 
To  the  land  of  the  west, 
To  the  land  of  their  rest ; 
Swift  are  the  hours 


[244] 

O'er  the  dew-sprent  flowers 
Away,  by  the  grey  dawn  pressed! 

Slower  and  slower 
Dies  the  song  of  the  low-voiced  guitar; 

Like  the  bend  of  a  stream, 

The  whole  to  a  dream, 

Slower  and  slow, 

With  a  silvery  flow 
Ebbs  away.  .  .  . 

Away,  while  slow 
To  the  fields  of  the  poppies  of  sleep 

I  wander,  I  tread 

In  the  maze  of  their  bed 

Away,  while  slow 

And  deep  and  low 
In  their  peace  I  lay  my  head. 

[1892] 


[245] 

V 
AGE   AND   YOUTH 

SPARE  whitened  hair,  a  withered  cheek, 
A  trembling  voice,  a  fireless  eye,  — 
Do  these  show  Age's  victory  ? 

I  deem  it  truer  that  the  man, 

Whose  frame  is  now  more  fragile  grown, 

Is  younger  than  the  child  new-born. 

For  he  who  enters  life's  long  road 
Is  old  with  duties  yet  to  be 
And  white  with  long  expectancy; 

Yet  as  the  years  roll  slowly  by, 

As  dross  that  ^leaves  the  vessel  bright, 

His  duties  fall  away.    The  light 

Of  freer  manhood  makes  him  young 
And  younger,  till,  those  duties  past, 
He  stands  in  perfect  youth  at  last. 

Thus  grow  we  younger  toward  the  grave, 
That  finds  us  in  our  fulness  free, 
And  on  the  brink  of  which  we  see 


[246] 

Close  'round  us  some  such  light  as  shone 
On  Man  and  Nature's  virgin  dawn, 
Grey  years  ago,  ere  Sin  was  born. 
[1892] 


[247] 

VI 

THIS  is  the  nursling  of  an  hundred  years. 

Save  this  the  horny  cactus  cannot  bloom, 

That  heeds  not  if  the  violets  shed  perfume, 

The  roses  blow,  the  August  swell  the  ears 

Of  corn,  or  the  dull  wintry  silence  nears. 

But  ah!  how  shorn  is  all  the  garden-room 

Of  beauty!  Flowers  and  shrubbery  dropped  in  gloom, 

The  fountain  lost  in  everlasting  tears. 

Thou,  stranger,  art  too  late  —  too  late  for  home, 

Tho*  Time  and  Hope  conspired  to  give  thee  life. 

And  shalt  thou  live,  where  thro'  the  sultry  air 

Death  reigns  and  all  malignant  harms  are  rife  ? 

Or  shall  thy  trust  not  rather  be  a  snare 

To  lure  thy  tardy  beauty  to  its  doom  ? 

[1893] 


[248] 

VII 

THO',  moored  along  the  quiet  quay  on  some 
Errand  of  commerce  bent,  she  rides  at  rest, 
Her  title,  half-obliterate  at  the  crest, 
Speaks  the  soft  language  of  a  distant  home. 
Her  time  shall  be,  and  she  invite  the  foam 
About  her  prow,  the  winds  to  blow  the  West 
Open,  —  and  all  her  hopes  move  forward,  blest 
And  favoured  'neath  the  Heaven's  unclouded  dome 
So  whilst  this  life  of  duties  we  discharge, 
Chained  to  the  moorings  of  a  mortal  thought, 
The  inspiring  evening  calls  us  from  the  marge. 
Hail,  star  and  wind  and  current!   Sunset,  hail! 
Away,  for  firmly  here  the  helm  is  caught, 
And  the  new  moon  hangs  in  the  homeward  sail. 


[249] 

VIII 
THE   DEATH   OF   AISCHYLOS 

(A   HEADLAND  NEAR  SYRACUSE.     WILD 
STORM) 

THE  wind  walks  wildly  in  the  trees  to-night. 

I  feel  mine  age.    Like  this  Sikelian  day 

From  gold  faded  to  Erebos,  so  I; 

My  triumphs  like  clouds  I  gather  round  me,  and 

Sink  now.    The  travail  of  the  storm-scourged  sea, 

The  windy  rack,  the  thunder's  vivid  leap 

Where  the  slit-lightnings  ope  their  ghastly  lips,  — 

It  merges  all,  and  from  ten  thousand  worlds, 

Sucked  in  the  caves  by  slimy  shores,  I  hear 

Only  the  windy  sough  of  Acheron ! 

There 's  storm  in  heaven,  the  wroth  gods  threaten  war, 

And  Zeus  in  agony  hurls  on  the  impotent  world 

His  foamy  spleen.    Our  'lated  end  has  come, 

Tho'  the  Earth  start  up  Promethean  to  rebel; 

She  shudders,  and  her  bowels,  gouged  and  rent 

By  the  fell  tempest's  horns,  shall  lie  like  dust 

Distracted  thro'  the  oblivious  universe. 

The  Erinys  range  abroad:   of  old  they  worked 

On  men  —  thieves,  liars,  adulterers,  parricides, 

The  horde  of  crime;  on  nations  —  Lydian  wealth 

And  Persia's  loud-mouthed  greed;  to-day,  the  world! 

For  there  are  world's  Erinys  even  as  men's, 


[250] 

And  on  her  bloody  track  they  follow.  Now  the  worlds, 
Hellas  and  all  that  is  not  Hellas,  pay.  .  .  . 

Hellas  —  Athenai !   By  the  immortal  gods, 
Athenai,  thou  shalt  die.    Like  some  light  girl 
She  shook  her  tresses  to  the  JSgean  wind, 
Where  on  the  listless  shore  playing  she  dipped 
Her  pink  foot  in  the  foam-hemmed  sea  and  smiled. 
Wet  were  her  asking  eyes;  and  fresh  her  arms, 
Rhythmic  with  dull  repose;  her  naked  side 
Quivered,  touched  by  the  feathery  wind,  —  O  Zeus ! 
Lustful  and  fickle!   From  the  unvenged  dead 
Helen  is  come,  and  fronting  Salamis 
Takes  up  her  fatal  dwelling! 

Thou  'dst  not  hear 

My  sober  voice.    The  rigid  days  are  gone. 
Virtue,  austere  and  pale,  is  gone.    Thou  list'st 
The  wanton  poet;  thou  lov'st  the  unmanly  plays, 
The  gilded  talkers;  lapp'st  thy  youth  in  vice, 
Musics  lascivious,  vile  philosophies; 
Hugg'st  in  thy  warm  embrace  the  ignobly  born, 
Slaves,  and  slaves'  children  come  from  barbarous  loins; 
Fooled  by  a  trinket,  lazy,  irreverent 
Of  all  the  gods;  and  scorn' st  with  ribald  lips 
The  eternal  prophesies.    Athenai!  aye, 
Heinous  indeed  is  thine  unending  crime, 
And  in  thy  fresh  girl's  side  the  serpent  sword 
Churns  thy  red  life  blood  into  black,  stark  death ! 


[251] 

Zeus,  bear  me  hence !   Forefend  my  scanty  hair, 
Blessed  with  the  endless  kisses  of  the  Muse, 
Should  clot  with  dust  of  earth.   Forefend  my  lips, 
Withered  with  singing  too  sublime  a  song, 
Should  eat  vileness;  these  eyes,  now  pale  with  age, 
Scorched  with  long  searching  of  thy  Heavens  and  shot 
That  on  the  irradiate  spasms  of  morning  light 
Round  thine  Olympos  fixed,  should  from  their  holes, 
Where  stretched  I  lie,  downward  my  livid  face, 
Stare  stark  into  the  worm-begrovelled  earth! 
Oh,  bear  me  hence!    Great  Zeus,  I  cannot  die, 
I  cannot  live.    Oh,  rend  the  impassioned  storm, 
Pierce  my  huge  breast  with  lightnings,  strew  my  corpse 
Like  ashes  on  the  world-encircling  stream! 
Shred  me  like  fleeces,  and  dismembered  lay 
Upon  thine  altar  that  is  all  the  world.          [A  pause.] 

Athenai !  How  thou  shamed'st  me !  me,  ye  gods ! 
Who  sweat  and  bled  for  liberty,  threw  my  life 
Before  thy  feet  and  went  to  Marathon, 
By  lordly  Salamis'  acanthine  dawn 
Ploughed  up  the  sea  and  in  the  furrows  sowed 
Persians,  a  sterile  crop !  And  if  in  song 
I  picked  His  leavings,  yet  the  Nine  vouchsafed 
Some  glory,  by  the  gods,  that  yet  shall  wind 
Its  clarion  down  the  building  aisles  of  time. 
Yet  oh!  the  shame  when  to  belittled  singers 
Thou  gav'st  thy  prize!    Within  mine  ear  yet  crawls 
His  voice,  puny  and  weak,  who  grimed  our  Muse 


[252] 

With  the  pale  passions  of  the  common  day; 

Who  danced  by  Victory's  torchlight,  glistening-limbed. 

His  body  wet  with  music,  the  ivies  black 

Plaited  in  honey-hair,  and  his  lithe  skin 

Laughing  with  subtle  fires  of  blood  —  a  shame ! 

And  he  rose  up  from  the  uninspired  throng 

To  win,  to  snatch  thy  prize,  Melpomene. 

I  had  sung  with  all  the  voices  of  the  world ; 

Thunders  I  knew;  the  primal  gods  revealed 

Their  forces,  secrets;  and  I  made  them  rise 

Out  of  the  chaos  of  legend,  stand  and  speak, 

Moving  their  shadow  past  our  little  life. 

Yet  him,  who  figments  of  the  ignoble  day 

Made  over  into  rhythms,  him  they  preferred 

And  crowned,  the  beardless  Sophokles!   And  I 

Slunk  homeward,  soiled  my  brow,  my  better  art 

Defaced.  —  O  Zeus !  too  many,  many  days 

I  have  lived,  beyond  my  setting  striven  to  hold 

The  sky,  outlived  myself.    Fulfil  thy  vow! 

Remember!  when  I  stood  white-robed,  black-locked, 

Beneath  thine  oaks,  thy  wind  ran  on  the  leaves 

And   like   a  hurricane's  song,  thou  swor'st :    "Thy 

death 

Comes  by  my  tortoise  from  my  dog."    Then  come ! 
No  fitter  storm  shall  yelling  hound  this  earth. 
Strike  my  thin  breast  —  I  bare  it,  supplicate 
A  rending  of  my  being;   lo!  here  my  head! 
Rack  my  dry  skull  and  let  me,  let  me  die! 

[A  long  pause.    He  descries  an  eagle.] 


[253] 

Ride,  child  of  storm,  ride  master  on  thy  gale. 
Feathers  unshrivelled  by  the  lightning,  skim 
The  wrathful  breaker  on  Sikelia's  shore. 
Like  a  black  dream,  thy  frown  slips  thro'  the  night ! 
Thy  sprayed  wings  fan  the  windy  black.    He  seeks 
The  march.    For  prey  ?    What  miserable  torn  life 
Shall  his  clawed  beak  pierce  ?  —  Gone !    Folded  to 
night  ! 

Fly  on  to  Zeus,  black  bird,  fly  on,  remote, 
And  house  thee  in  the  abode  of  hurricanes  — 

Stay,  gods!  great  gods!  Hither  and  hither  still 
He  flies.    His  stinging  eye  flames  thro'  the  dusk. 
Away !   His  hooked  mouth  holds  —  away !  How  grim 
His  stiff,  iron  feathers  near  me !    Lightnings,  blast 
His  flight!  ye  gods,  avert!   How  close  he  skims! 
O,  shrivelling  terror  of  the  cloudy  god, 
Be  gone,  black  — 

[The  tortoise  falls  on  his  head.  He  sinks  to  the 
ground.] 

Death.    Alas!  Alas!  Alas! 

My  prayer  was  heard !   My  brow  clotted  with  wet  — 
How  comes  it  ?    Shattered  by  a  fall  of  stone  — 
Or  —  agonies !  wild  pain !  horrible  night ! 
Mother,  what  wretchedness  thy  youth  brought  forth, 
My  lot  of  crazed  suffering,  exile,  death! 
Stupours  enshroud  —  gray  morning,  wilt  thou  ne'er 
Shudder  into  the  East;  gray  dawn,  of  gray, 


[254] 

Here  is  thy  wonted  throne  Athenai,  here; 
Quit  thy  bed,  tangled  in  the  Cyclades,  — 
Gray  dawn  —  dream  —  dulness  —  gray,  gray,  gray, 

how  gray. 
Alas,  what  sick,  slow  pain  —  my  brain !  my  brain ! 

[He  dies.} 
[1894] 


[255] 

IX 

MY  note  is  highest  of  them  all, 

And  uppermost  along  the  choir 

With  tremors  of  my  treble  I  call 

The  mist  of  stars  to  point  their  fire, 

While  nevermore  my  echoes  fall 

Tho'  silence  hath  an  interval 

For  love  of  order  on  the  lyre. 

I  am  the  Lady  of  the  Scale; 

For  all  that  moveth  music  is  ... 

The  reasons  of  my  note  prevail 

Thro'  pause  and  change  of  melodies; 
And  singing  down  the  endless  gale 
I  do  command  the  fiery  trail. 

Howe'er,  my  song  is  not  of  me. 

The  sphere  and  circuit  of  each  star 
Flashes  that  .  .  .  their  degree, 

And  storm  their  light  with  swell  of  war. 
The  dragons  of  the  auroral  sea 
Taking  their  pleasure  to  be  free 

Are  yet  divine  and  regular. 

[1894?] 


[256] 


WHEN  you  've  averaged  emotion,  found  where  Nature 

goes  to  school, 
"  After  many  years  discovered  "  who  God  be  and  how 

he  rule; 
Reckoned  that  Castalia's  fountain  ran  a  gallon  to  the 

hour,  — 
Doubtless  it  and  you  shall  dry.  Another  race  will  claim 

a  dower. 

Lightly  you  have  sold  your  meadow  and  the  freedom  of 

the  lea, 
Sunlight-ripple  and  sea-burst,  the  winy  air,  the  spumy 

sea, 
And  the  wreaths  of  land  whose  edge  it  lifting  kisses; 

and  the  soul 
Of  the  stars  in  violet  air  that  wrapt  gold  circles  round 

the  pole: 

Lightly  sold  your  heart;  forgotten  passion,  courage, 
pang  and  throe, 

Love  the  love  and  hate  the  hatred,  keenly  feel  and 
largely  do,  — 

You  that  daub  with  gorgeous  colours,  hum  the  strenu 
ous  key  that  pearled 

With  a  nightingale's  and  Shakespeare's  song  the  seon- 
withered  world. 


[257] 

Life  is  his  that  lives.    By  living,  not  by  learning,  may 

we  learn. 
And  a  hand  that  grasps  not  life,  is  gathering  ashes  for 

its  urn. — 
But  a  breathless  race  comes  flooding  from  the  portals 

of  the  sun. 
Richer  dawns  and  larger  days  and  wider  evenings  are 

begun. 
[1895] 


[258] 

XI 

ODE 

HILLS,  mountains,  lakes,  farewell! 

Summits  and  snows; 

And  thou,  thou  sunful  air  of  Engadin; 

Gentian  and  daisy  and  bell, 

Where  the  wind  blows; 

Yea,  all  thou  Nature  that  mine  eyes  have  seen ; 

Farewell ! 

Never  again 

Shall  we  behold  your  arched  skies, 

Save  when  estranged  by  pain, 

With  pale  and  old  and  other  eyes. 

Here,  to  these  sights, 

Enlaced  about  with  human  thought 

We  came. 

A  terror  spelled  us  at  the  windy  lights; 

Our  breath  grew  lame 

And  on  this  world  our  vision  fell  distraught. 

Too  stinging  near  the  sun ! 

The  space  too  utter  large !  the  air 

Acrid  so  fine  it  was! 

Our  beaten  spirit,  impotent  to  share, 

Became  as  glass 

Brittle  and  dead  before  the  vision: 


[259] 

We  could  our  face  but  hide, 
Our  arms  about  us  for  a  pall; 
"Heaven  has  shattered  us,"  we  cried  and  cried. 
Our  ear  dissolved;  our  voice  quavered;  and  we 
were  small. 

Yet  the  rich  passage  of  the  natural  days 

Dragging  their  carmine  webs  and  violet  hems 

Over  the  flowered  world; 

And  all  about  unfurled 

The  languid  nets  of  evening  dripping  gems 

Thro'  the  low  rays; 

With  aftertrain  of  stars, 

Sober  divinities  and  simple  diadems! 

Where  on  your  cars 

You  move  in  circle  to  the  tracks  of  day! 

Ye  enfolded  us  and  we  did  lose 

The  little  habit  of  the  hour  and  way. 

We  have  seen  — 

Above  the  fluid  air, 

The  effaced  languor  of  ravine 

And  this  long  valley  peopled  as  a  lair 

With  smoky  forms  — 

The  morn's  gray-lidded  star 

Alone; 

We've  felt  the  storm's 

Approach,  the  rocks  with  echo  jar; 

We  Ve  heard  as  war 

Of  world  on  world  the  moving  glacier  moan: 


[260] 

Till  to  the  brain 

The  healing  knowledge  of  eternal  things, 

The  sufferance  of  limit  and  the  lore 

O*  the  world's  serene  adjustment  quiet  gave; 

Till  we  felt  sorrow  for  the  obedient  star, 

Pity  and  patience  for  the  taxed  moon 

And  all  this  broil  of  universe  that  serves 

Its  taskmaster;   O,  till  it  seemed  then 

Time  was  a  noisy  bellman,  tiredly 

That  rung  in  stellar  deserts  his  dull  bell 

Calling  the  planets  home.    A  finished  day ! 

The  orbed  meadow-land  of  solar  gold 

Was  waxen  sterile  and  embrowned;   a  spell 

Had  soon  distilled  the  system  to  a  drop, 

And  of  the  whole  destroyed 

One  fiery  globule  wavered  in  the  endless  void. 

So  runs  the  dream  about  your  height! 

So  man  may  stand  with  open  eye, 

A  dying  acolyte 

Amid  your  ceremonies  that  do  not  die; 

And  hear, 

In  sober  and  subdued  soul, 

Without  fear 

The  roll 

And  tidal  motion  of  the  sacramental  air. 

Farewell!  again  farewell! 

From  where  ye  dwell 

We  shall  descend  within  the  gentle  plain,  — 


[261] 

There  life  is  speakable: 
The  while  your  train, 
In  light  of  days  that  set  not  but  still  fare 
Upon  the  spirit's  skies, 
More  sober,  more  serene 
Shall  rise, 

From  all  the  things  that  were 
Apart, 

To  that  high  backward  of  the  heart 
Whereto  the  thought  that  travels  ne'er  hath 
wholly  been. 

[1895] 


XII 

'T  WAS  yet  an  hour  to  dawn.    Revengeful  storm 

Tortured  the  ^Egean  air.    The  sea  was  high, 
And  things  of  mist  and  water  without  form 

Rose,  ran,  were  lost.    The  darkness  swelled  with 

cry- 
Then  greatly  heard,  'mid  all  that  night's  alarms 

Most  hideous,  was  a  sound  of  cities  torn, 
Of  glory  strangled  in  an  ocean's  arms, 

Of  death.  The  tempest  sped ;  —  and  it  was  morn. 

From  high  Oliaros  looking  forth  alone, 

The  sculptor  saw  a  sea  with  isles  impearled,  — 
But  not  yon  island  of  the  golden  stone : 

Paros  was  sunk.    A  calm  lay  on  the  world. 

His  frighted  lip  grew  calm.    He  looked  around. 

Never  shone  day  more  marvellous.  —  But  he 
Swore  to  his  heart  an  oath  that  had  no  sound, 

Darkly,  and  cast  his  chisel  to  the  sea. 

'  [1895] 


[263] 

XIII 
COLOGNE    CATHEDRAL 

O  EAKTH,  this  is  not  earthly,  nor  of  stone; 
Nor  did  thy  bowels  yield  the  stuff  that  made 
The  pale  gray  roof  whereunder  light  and  shade 
Move  undiurnal  to  the  greater  sun. 
Prayer  carved  the  sable  flowers;   a  choral  spun 
Rose-windows  in  the  aisle;   and  music  stayed 
So  silken-long  by  arch  and  colonnade 
That  the  lines  trembled  out  and  followed  on. 
'T  is  here  philosopher  and  peasant  sings 
In  pauses  of  the  mind,  when  thought  and  faith, 
The  I  and  Thou,  are  bubbles  of  the  breath ;  — 
From  on  the  citadel  of  human  things 
Sheer  to  God's  sky,  in  life  rather  than  death, 
The  serfs  with  quiet  eyes  watch  with  the  kings. 
[1895] 


[264] 

XIV 

WHEN  by  you  lies  my  broken  heart,  and  I, 
Up  on  the  hill  where  of  this  world  is  heard 
At  most  the  love  note  of  a  vernal  bird 
And  breaking  leaves  that  flutter  in  the  sky; 
When  nothing  more  of  all  this  agony 
And  strange  disease  that  in  our  body  stirred, 
Is  left,  and  with  mine  ashes  are  interred 
My  hope  and  name  and  all  that  I  might  be; 
If  then  one  said  it  differed  not,  to  live 
Or  not  to  live,  since  living  all  is  death, 
And  seeing  then,  beyond  the  yews  and  grove, 
The  fading  fragments  that  our  years  did  give, 
Should  say  *t  were  better  never  to  feel  breath, 
I  answer,  No.    For  life  is  less  than  love. 

[1895-96] 


[265] 

XV 

Now  the  lovely  moon  is  wilted, 
Lost  her  petals  down  the  sky. 
Sorrily  the  wind  goes  by; 

Rosebuds  where  the  branches  tilted 
Yield  their  flowers  with  a  sigh. 

June,  the  wonderment  of  blossom, 
With  her  necklace'  thirsty  pearls, 
With  her  tearful  eyes  and  girl's 

Changing,  ever  changing  bosom, 

With  the  hot  sun  in  her  curls  — 

This  is  last  of  all  the  June-nights. — 
Let  us  softly  speak  of  living, 
Thou  whose  life  was  but  forgiving, 

I  that  in  the  passed  moonlight's 

Shadow,  moved  thee  with  my  grieving. 

Memory  saddens  our  caresses. 
Feel,  thy  tired  heart  is  cold, 
All  the  rich  and  devious  gold 

Warm  with  shadow-waves,  thy  tresses, 
Surfeits  with  my  kisses  old. 

Long  ago  our  love  was  broken. 
Habit  poisons  the' embrace. — 
Yet,  O  changeless  in  thy  grace, 


[266] 

Speak  the  word  thou  oft  hast  spoken 
And  the  moon  was  on  thy  face. 

Kisses,  loved  one!   All  is  ashen 
Thro'  the  life  that  lies  before; 
Drink  my  glowing  wine  that  o'er 

Hearts  grown  cold  with  vanished  passion 

Kindles  what  was  wild  of  yore. 
[1895-96] 


[367] 

XVI 

I  KNOW  where  all  the  singers  hide 

And  music  wanders  far  along,  — 
Down  the  steep  rock  and  country  side 

A  mile  of  song; 
And  sighs  that  the  hazel  sighed 

Mix  and  grow  strong. 

There  tired  winds  come  home  to  say 

Their  tale  of  acres  bowed  in  flight, 
And  streamless  hollows  where  they  lay. 

There  shade  and  light 
All  the  delicious  day 

Linger  and  light. 

Down  sudden  slips  in  turns  and  turns 

Aglitter,  sings  the  rivulet; 
White  bubbles  float  the  little  bums, 

And  round  are  set 
Fringes  of  lucid  ferns 

Fragile  and  wet. 
[1895-96] 


[268] 


XVII 

HOLD  still,  my  brain !   My  temples  burst !    Shall  e'er 

This  marble  burgeon  with  her  ?    I  can  see 

An  Aphrodite,  poised;   a  falling  fold 

About  her  loins,  —  and  nothing  more  but  sky, 

Sky,  sun,  light,  air,  and  rolling  spheres,  and  men. 

Where  is  my  chisel  ?  —  Paros  is  an  isle 

Does  make  earth  more  magnificent  than  aught 

Of  conquest.    I  believe  it 's  the  old  heart 

Of  world  and  universe;   were  the  quarry-slave 

Ambitious,  he  should  find  below,  far,  far 

Below,  motion,  life  —  and  a  regency 

So  splendid  as  would  shrivel  him  to  ash. 

The  splinters  shine  like  gold !   Away !   Away,  — 

Somewhere  within  here  she,  —  Apollo,  help ! 

That  I  may  bid  her  rise,  and  mix  with  stone 

My  Phryne  with  the  never-opened  eye, 

The  holy  oval  face,  the  rich  long  neck 

And  serious  body  and  —  -   Oh  the  arms !  the  arms ! 

My  lips  grow  dull  with  kissing  of  her  arms, 

Dull,  yes!  and  sad! 

She  shall  be  here  eternally  while  I 

Make  her  eternal.    I  shall  bid  her  come, 

Sit  near,  and  say  things  in  her  golden  Greek, 

And  singing  freshen  some  old  mythos  with 

Warm  melody.    I  '11  call  her.  —  No !  not  yet ! 


[269] 

Not  yet!   Despair's  enough  without  herself 
To  make  my  heart  at  such  comparison 
Break.    Memory  first  shall  guide  my  hand,  — 
Memory  made  fresher  by  herself.    Some  eve 
We'll  mix  our  water  and  wine;   we'll  chaplets  weave 
Of  ivy,  sail  for  Athens,  and  in  spring 
Hear  the  great  plays  and  drink  at  festivals 
And  run  to  some  wild  cry,  some  terrible 
Sharp  song,  away,  away;  the  spotted  skin 
Slips  thro'  the  starlight;  thyrsus  at  her  throat 
Lengthened,  and  head  thrown  wildly  back  to  see 
More  rich  the  winy  heaven  dissolve  and  run ! 
Where  is  she  ?    Phryne !   Phryne !   Look,  my  love, 
Upon  me  and  my  marble.    A  snow  more  white 
Ne'er  fell;  with  the  influence  and  love  of  years 
We  '11  build  an  outline,  thou  and  I,  or  thou 
Rather,  that  verily  my  lips  and  breast 
Will  shudder  but  believe.    Ah  come  away! 
We  '11  go  and  hear  the  music  of  the  sea 
And  pity  the  old  singer;  watch  the  moon, 
Sad  harmonist  on  the  unresponsive  earth; 
Feel  the  far  stars,  —  yet  hear  and  watch  and  feel 
Nothing  but  thee,  thou  jewel  of  my  soul ! 
[1895-96] 


[270] 

XVIII 
NIMIUM  PASSUS 

IF  I  could  find  three  words  to  say 

My  fill  of  hatred,  I  believe 
The  affrighted  earth  would  roll  away 

And  leave  me  here  alone  to  live. 

They  had  some  little  gift  to  give, 
Some  rank  or  ribbon  to  bestow. 

God  knows,  I  asked  not  to  receive,  — 
They  teased  me,  held  me  up  for  show. 

But,  as  I  think,  it 's  blow  for  blow 
Before  the  throne  of  righteous  Time. 

I  have  them  yet,  tho'  right  be  slow 
And  wrath  needs  age  to  grow  sublime. 

Then,  when  the  testament  of  earth 
Names  one  or  other  of  us  heir, 

I  shall  grow  hideous  with  mirth, 

Curse  them,  and  pluck  them  by  the  hair. 

[1896] 


[271] 

XIX 

SPRING  is  come.  From  the  wind  lightly  dissipate 
feathers  of  mist  that  an  upland  exhales 

Whence  in  a  glitter  the  soluble  snows'  tightened  gray  is 
in  silver  dissolved  to  the  vales. 

Juices  of  sun-sweetened  clay,  that  the  broken  seed 
cupped,  press  higher;  and  now  shall  unfold 

Milk-white  curls  whose  secret  of  crimson  the  sun  shall 
divide  with  his  arrow  of  gold. 

Far  over  tremulous  shrubbery  glistens  an  ointment  of 

morning  and  April  and  sky, 
Bluer 's  the  gloom  of  the  cypress,  silverer  the  olives,  and 

sweeter  the  poplar's  cry. 

Till  from  a  thousand  hills  that  surround  her,  marvellous 

murmurs  gathering  sing 
As  from  round  foam-chapleted  oceans  in  circles  of  song 

growing  single:  Spring. 

[1897] 


[272] 

XX 
IN   AMPEZZO 

IN  days  of  summer  let  me  go 

Up  over  fields,  at  afternoon, 

And,  lying  low  against  my  stone 

On  slopes  the  scythe  has  pain  to  mow, 

Look  southward  a  long  hour  alone. 

For  evening  there  is  lovelier 
Than  vision  or  enchanted  tale: 
When  wefts  of  yellow  vapour  pale, 
And  green  goes  down  to  lavender 
On  rosy  cliffs,  shutting  the  vale 

Whose  smoke  of  violet  forest  seeks 
The  steep  and  rock,  where  crimson  crawls, 
And  drenched  with  carmine  fire  their  walls 
Go  thinly  smouldering  to  the  peaks, 
High,  while  the  sun  now  somewhere  falls; 

Except  a  cloud-caught  ochre  spark 
In  one  last  summit,  —  and  away 
On  lazy  wings  of  mauve  and  gray, 
Away  and  near,  like  memory,  dark 
Is  bluish  with  the  filmy  day, 

What  time  the  swallows  flying  few 
Over  uncoloured  fields  become 


[273] 

Small  music  thro'  the  shining  dome; 
And  sleepy  leaves  are  feeling  dew 
Above  the  crickets'  under-hum, 

In  bye-tone  to  a  savage  sound 

Of  waters  that  with  discord  smite 

The  frigid  wind  and  lurking  light, 

And  swarm  behind  the  gloom,  and  bound 

Down  sleepy  valleys  to  the  night : 

And  thoughts  delicious  of  the  whole, 

Gathering  over  all  degrees, 

Yet  sad  for  something  more  than  these, 

Across  low  meadow-lands  of  soul 

Grow  large,  like  north-lights  no  one  sees. 

I  care  not  if  the  painter  wrought 
The  tinted  dream  his  spirit  hid, 
When  rich  with  sight  he  saw,  amid 
A  jarring  world,  one  tone,  and  caught 
The  colour  passing  to  his  lid. 

Be  still,  musician  and  thy  choir! 

Where  trumpets  blare  and  the  bow  stings 

In  symphony  a  thousand  strings 

To  cry  of  wood-wind  and  desire 

Of  one  impassioned  voice  that  sings. 

Nay,  silence  have  the  poet's  mode 
And  southern  vowels  all!  let  die, 


[274] 

So  ghostly- vague,  the  northern  cry!  — 
This  world  is  better  than  an  ode 
And  evening  more  than  elegy.  — 

Yet  what  shall  singing  do  for  me  ? 
How  shall  a  verse  be  crimsoned  o'er? 
I  ever  dream  one  art  the  more; 
I  who  did  never  paint  would  see 
The  colour  painters  languish  for, 

And  wisely  use  the  instruments 
That  earlier  harmony  affords  ; 
I  dream  a  poesy  of  chords 
Embroidered  very  rich  in  tints: 
*T  is  not  enough,  this  work  of  words. 

A  wilder  thing  inflames  our  hearts. 
We  do  refuse  to  sift  and  share. 
For  we  would  musically  bear 
The  burden  of  the  gathered  arts 
Together  which  divided  were, 

And,  passing  Knowledge,  highly  rear 
Upon  her  iron  architrave 
These  airy  images  we  rave,  — 
Lest  wholly  vain  and  fallen  sheer 
Our  vision  dress  us  for  the  grave. 
[1898] 


[275] 

XXI 

IF,  in  the  night  and  madness  of  thy  mind, 
The  tearing  storm  appear  to  thee  a  thing 
Lit  sharply  with  thy  hate  and  suffering,  — 
A  cause,  a  God,  above  the  screaming  wind; 
Or,  when  the  sunlight  infinitely  kind 
Moves  the  meadow  and  mountain  land  to  sing, 
Thou  seem  to  see  the  glister  of  a  wing  — 
Know  it  is  nothing,  and  thy  eyeballs  blind. 
Remember  all  this  little  humour  of  despair 
Wrongs  the  rich  summer-time  when  summer  is, 
And  even  so  thy  subtle  ecstasies 
The  winter  hurricane  and  awful  air. 
Fall  down  upon  thy  knees  and  lift  thy  eyes, 
That  all  things  are  forever  as  they  were. 
[1899?] 


[276] 

XXII 

HENCEFOKWARD  I  no  longer  shall  be  known 

Among  you  all,  with  whom  I  strove  to  dwell. 

For  all  our  loves  were  wholly  pitiable: 

I  was  a  stranger,  you  were  not  my  own. 

And  over  all  I  was  I  ring  a  knell, 

As  a  broad  blasted  landscape  at  sundown. 

I  would  not  have  the  flames  break  from  my  frown 

Against  you.    I  will  go  away,  —  Farewell!  — 

Not  as  the  Spaniard  and  his  argosies 

Who  ran  greedily  thro5  the  screaming  sea 

Into  the  sunset  after  enterprise, 

But  with  dispassionate  and  quiet  eyes 

Watching  my  destiny  depart  from  me 

Like  flushes  in  lotus  after  sunrise. 

[1900] 


[277] 

XXIII 
A   LETTER 

YOUR  own  sweet  flowers  are  here  to  see: 
Crisp  leaves,  a  sudden  warm  perfume 
And  crumbling  little  blossoms,  from 
Italy.  - 

\ 

Pallanza  in  the  bay  I  know, 
And  Intra,  and  the  point  between. 
They  scent  the  lilac,  golden,  green 
Afterglow 

I'  the  garden  lying  half -asleep, 
Where  curious  aloes  feel  the  star 
Thro'  webs  of  Indian  deodar 

Tremble  and  weep. 

And  so  even  now,  tho'  autumn's  wet 
And  leaves  about  me  falling  fast, 
With  you  some  plants  and  this  at  last 
Flower  yet ! 

They've  come  to  sadden  here  by  me. 
Already  every  leaf  is  numb. 
'T  was  yesterday  they  reached  me  from 
Italy! 


[278] 

We  're  like  your  flowers,  you  and  I. 
Tho*  years  since  I  was  —  alien  there, 
I  feel  I  in  this  northern  air 
Nearly  die. 

Yet  would  you  venture  that  the  home, 
The  peace  that  heals,  the  love  that  cures, 
Is  mine  in  old  Val  d'Arno,  yours, 
Say,  in  Rome  ? 

I  ask.    My  novel  has  it  so: 
I  treat  a  travelling  patriot 
In  a  sharp  style.    But  —  I  'd  forgot  — 
You  don't  know! 

I  was  a  singer  then  of  scenes 
Where  roses  played  a  role.    Enough! 
To-day  I  trade  in  prose  and  stuff 
Magazines. 

Sometimes  I  muster,  to  be  sure, 
A  rhyme,  a  manner,  a  technique; 
But  all  of  me  is,  so  to  speak, 
Literature.  .  .  . 

For  your  sweet  flowers  —  alas  how  vain ! 
You  see  they  made  the  echoes  rise! 
"  Only  a  moment "  Age  replies. 

Thanks  again. 
[1901] 


[279] 

XXIV 

MY  life  shall  count  by  the  smile  and  tear, 
By  the  flash  of  blue  in  an  eye  I  know. 

It 's  a  world  of  time  since  June  last  year 
And  a  timeless  world  I  am  living  now. 

One  year  ago!  That  we  should  have  walked 
The  very  path  we  are  walking  now! 

And  —  tell  me,  do  you  remember  ?  —  talked 
Likewise  one  little  year  ago  ? 

Dear  love,  what  a  trick  Time  plays  on  us!  — 
As  tho'  the  hour  and  day  could  give 

A  rule  for  passage!  or  all  this  fuss 

Of  the  sun  be  measure  how  long  we  live! 

Life  is  older  than  all  the  seons; 

And  younger  than  any  moment,  youth. 
For  aught  that  the  earth  go  gathering  seasons 

The  fact  o'  the  Spring  is  the  world's  best  truth. 


[280] 

XXV 

You  'LL  say  when  here  again  after  it  all 
I  recollect  these  things,  that  I  devise, 

Like  a  poor  devot  in  confessional, 

By  saying  aloud  to  make  them  otherwise, 

And  with  the  thrust  of  that  terrific  guilt 

Grown  soft  and  coward,  to  talk  away  the  stain.  • 

Not  so  —  The  wrong  is  done,  the  blood  is  spilt, 
I  know  it  —  if  sense  at  all  be  in  my  brain. 

'T  is  sorry  homage,  yes,  and  pitiful, 
After  so  long  to  bring  before  your  eyes 

The  frayed  and  dusty  flowers  of  my  soul 
With  such  belated  show  of  sacrifice. 


[281] 

XXVI 

THIS  is  the  violin.    If  you  remember  — 
One  afternoon  late,  in  the  early  days, 
One  of  those  inconsolable  December 
Twilights  of  city  haze, 

You  came  to  teach  me  how  the  hardened  fingers 
Must  drop  and  nail  the  music  down,  and  how 
The  sound  then  drags  and  nettled  cries,  then  lingers 
After  the  dying  bow.  — 

For  so  all  that  could  never  be  is  given 
And  flutters  off  these  piteously  thin 
Strings,  till  the  night  of  a  midsummer  heaven 
Quivers  ...  a  violin. 

I  struggled,  and  alongside  of  a  duty, 
A  nagging  everyday-long  commonplace! 
I  loved  this  hopeless  exercise  of  beauty 
Like  an  allotted  grace,  — 

The  changing  scales  and  broken  chords,  the  trying 
From  sombre  notes  below  to  catch  the  mark, 
I  have  it  all  thro'  my  heart,  I  tell  you,  crying 
Childishly  in  the  dark. 


VI 
FRAGMENTS 


[THE  following  pieces  cannot,  for  the  most  part,  be  correctly 
dated.  The  important  fragments  of  "  The  Cardinal  Play  " 
may,  however,  be  safely  ascribed  to  the  year  1897,  and  the 
last  five  pieces  in  the  section  belong  altogether  to  the  year 
1904.  They  are,  therefore,  in  all  probability,  the  last  lines 
which  STICKNEY  ever  wrote  and  have  consequently  been 
put  together  under  the  heading  "  Dramatic  Fragments. "] 


[287] 


THE  Autumn  's  done;  they  have  the  golden  corn  in, 
Clover  and  fern  from  either  slope  are  gone, 
The  peaks  high  up  in  the  crystalline  morning 
Glister  of  gray  and  roan. 

These  pitiless  two  hours  of  midday  hotter 

Than  from  the of  a  furnace,  flare  * 

The  very  shadows  like  a  sunken  water, 
Leaving  but  sunlight  there, 

Till  eve:   and  in  the  valley  that  expires 
A  quick  chill  wind  seizes  the  duskiness, 
While,  on  the  summits  lighting,  sunset  fires 
Kindle  in  Sorapis. 

One  of  thes.e  days  I  know,  just  as  they  sadden 
Spangling  awhile  the  rose  and  yellow  sky, 
You  '11  go  away  and  watch  the  country  gladden 
Softly  to  Italy. 

There,  take  this  ring  of  gold  —  and  when  your  fancy 
Glides  by  to  songs  under  the  autumn  moon 
Where  like  unfurling  silks  of  necromancy 
Lies  out  the  white  lagoon, 

Throw  it  away,  that  it  be  mine  no  longer. 
Italian,  give  it  back  to  Italy, 

1  [  Fourth  word  illegible.] 


[288] 

I  will  not  have  thy  Past  about  me  stronger 
Than  what  is  yet  to  be. 

Nay,  hurry  home  to  sleep.    The  ferns  are  rigid 
With  hoar,  and  dark  and  denser  hangs  the  mist; 
It  freezes  and  the  stars  quaver  in  frigid 
Heaven  of  amethyst. 

Down  thro'  San  Vito  and  the  land  Cadore, 
To  which  —  when  closed  the  pestered  city  gate  — 
The  dying  Titian  strained,  homeward  from  glory, 
Home  from  eternal  fate; 

Down  where  the  outlines  have  a  softer  meaning  — 
Willow  and  clematis,  the  fruit  and  grain; 
And  the  last  mountain  height  sinks  greening 
Into  the  golden  plain,  — 

To  Venice.    There  the  October  days  purpureal 
Fall  down  to  earth  from  Heaven  wearily,  — 
And  wounded  at  the  last,  insatiate  Uriel 
Dies  on  the  flaming  sea.  — 

One  of  these  days  you  '11  leave  me  in  the  mountains, 
For  I  go  Northward,  not  to  see  this  year 
Gold  Italy  and  her  wind -silvered  plantains, 
But  there  the  sad  and  sere  — 

I  go  elsewhere.  .  .  . 


[289] 


II 

SHE  sat  under  the  naked  bough 

In  an  autumn  moon's  sharp  shade, 
Her  two  hands  clasped  about  her  knee, 

And  not  a  move  she  made. 
On  crisp,  dead  leaves  I  walked  to  her 

And  said,  "Thou  art  the  Morrow's  Norn," 
And  "Verily"  she  answered  me, 

Lifting  her  eyes  forlorn. 
Then  with  a  slow  and  solemn  sign 

I  said  "Be  mine." 

She  shook  her  head,  but  her  rimey  hair 

Spread  not  upon  the  wind. 
And  it  froze  me  so  to  see  her  there, 

Till  my  own  chilled  heart  grew  kind ; 
I  touched  her  shoulder  hard  as  stone, 

I  pressed  my  hot  lips  to  her  eye, 
And  wrapt  my  cloak  about  her,  soft 

With  a  heart-warm  sigh, 
Saying  again  with  many  a  sign 

"  Be  ever  mine." 

She  looked  as  when  the  spark  goes  out 

In  ashes  that  all  are  dead. 
I  left  her,  over  the  crisp  dead  leaves 

And  quicklier  too  I  sped, 


[290] 

For  I  heard  as  out  of  a  fold  of  wind 

While  the  white  moon  stood  above  the  line 

'Mid  shadows  moved  like  creeping  coils 
Of  a  poisoned  ivy  vine, 

I  heard  .  .  . 

[1895-96] 


[291] 
III 

FRAGMENT      OF    AN    ODE    FOR    GREEK 
LIBERTY 

YOUR  enemy  like  startled  fowl  flies  forth. 

Not  by  nice  reckoning 

Of  chance  and  odd, 

Nor  martyrdom  of  meek  repose 

Is  reft  from  God 

The  Laurel  and  the  Rose. 

Nor  matters  it  to  bring 

Trophies  home  and  a  victor  rod 

With  blare  of  trumpets  and  caparison : 

It  needs  not  to  have  won 

To  be  great. 

But  the  exulting  soul 

Which  strides  alone  against  the  sun, 

By  his  own  passion  hurled 

And  slave  to  his  desire's  supreme  control 

Is  master  of  the  world. 

Go  out !   To  horse !    Once  more 

As  ye  were  first  — 

For  they  have  sold 

All,  bartered  all,  better  and  best, 

And  to  their  richest  guest, 

When  the  bargain's  o'er 


[292] 

And  they  the  counted  utmost  hold, 
They  let  out  Liberty  like  any  whore.  — 

Brahma  or  Assur,  Allah,  Christ  or  Zeus, 

Or  what  strange  name  beside, 

Who  is  this  God  our  sacrifice  pursues  ? 

A  shadow  unrevealed 

Behind  the  circled  sun  he  stands, 

Muffled  in  everlasting  pride,  — 

While  with  uplifted  hands, 

Tho*  harvests,  hills  and  strands 

Frittered  with  use, 

The  endless  earth  in  ecstasy  has  kneeled. 

Who  is  this  God  our  prayer  pursues  ? 

Down  the  big  night  of  time, 

On  wings  of  ancient  wind 

The  gray  smoke  from  a  thousand  altars  rolls, 

And  anthems  cried  by  choired  souls 

Immeasurably  combined 

Crowd  in  the  sky  sublime.  — 

Who  is  he  ?  where  ?   and  may  he  be  divined  ? 

And  shall  this  senigmatic  Justice  wake 

Upon  their  dreary  end, 

Reckoning  retribution  for  their  pangs  ? 

Shall  he  beat  heaven  till  it  bend, 

And  in  this  nation's  fangs 

His  barbed  spear  of  yellow  lightning  break  ?  — 

Or  must  their  piteous  wrong 

Of  slaughtered  men,  women  befouled 


[  293] 

And  nurslings  trampled  in  the  mire, 

Hurl  its  terrific  song, 

The  crying  measure  of  a  last  desire  ?  — 

And  get  no  more  than  when  the  dying  lion  growled ! 

Aye,  should  he  rise, 

The  master  shrouded  in  our  prayer, 

Girding  his  sacred  loins 

About  the  vengeance  that  this  world  denies, 

He  would  change  our  air 

To  golden  sulphur  solid  as  the  sun, 

And  rend  the  planet's  groins 

With  his  curse, 

Till  down  the  universe 

Made  vagabond, 

Shattered  and  fragmentary  and  undone, 

The  frail  flame-winged  embers  should  rehearse 

Our  cataclysm  to  the  great  stars  beyond. 

He  shall  not  rise.    Let  hope  in  veils  of  pall 

This  widely  crimson  morning  close; 

The  supreme  warriors  fall 

Where  virtue  first  arose. 

Let  no  one  weep  the  happy  to  repose 

[1897] 


[294] 

IV 

MY  Ludovico,  it  is  sad! 

You  Ve  caused  your  artist's  soul  to  die. 

You  Ve  starved  the  very  heart.    And  why  ? 
It  was  no  common  heart  you  had. 

I  don't  say  you  were  born  above 

A  world  of  worlds;  to  sit  and  scan 
In  majesty  Shakespearian 

The  man  of  generations  move. 

I  don't  say  you  were  genius.    No ! 

But  from  your  tender  lips  would  fall 

Delicious  things,  and  I  recall 
One  song  that  set  my  cheeks  aglow. 

Why  starve  it  ?  —  What,  pray,  have  you  won  ? 
You,  quick  and  subtle  analyst, 
Would  take  the  dearest  flower  and  twist 

Its  stem,  and  watch  the  juices  run. 

I  know  we  all  are  such,  of  course. 

It  took  some  thousand  thousand  years 
To  make  a  race  that  liked  its  tears 

And  whetted  the  edges  of  remorse. 

But  you,  with  such  a  soul  to  sing, 
A  large  and  blue  and  quiet  eye! 


[295] 

I  love  you  very  little  —  I 
Who  thought  you  prophet,  priest  and  king. 

I  wonder.    Will  the  old  world  wake  ? 
Are  we  the  people  of  the  end  ? 
And  shall  the  coming  poets  tend 


THE  weakened  eyes  regain  their  sight, 

The  fevered  pulse  grows  slow  and  sure, 
Oh  night,  on  thy  sweet  breast  secure, 

My  head  is  laid,  is  laid,  oh  night! 


VI 

AND  I  stood  ringed  about  with  marble  dreams, 
Motionless,  white,  but  fashioned  of  thin  shift, 
Silvery  and  lovely.    Many  a  man  was  there, 
In  feature  perfect,  and  in  posture  calm, 
And  all  touched  by  the  wand  of  harmony, 
Speaking  from  still  lips  memorable  things. 
The  light  was  dusk  spun  by  the  wizard  hand 
Of  evening  from  her  distaff;  and  the  air  attuned 
With  notes  that  lute-string  never  bare,  nor  viol 
Rendered  to  ease  its  heart.    And  thro'  the  land 
Swept  the  slow  measure  of  a  solemn  wind, 


[296] 

Laden  with  infinite  murmurs,  where  the  sea 
In  voice  distant  and  rhythmic  told  of  powers 
Coiled  in  eternal  slumber;  far  away 
Mounted  and  fell  beneath  the  stooping  heaven 
The  hills,  cadenced,  subdued  or  sweetly  plane, 
Yet  most  majestic,  tempered  with  the  soul 
Of  age,  nature,  infinitude  and  sleep. 
And  set  alone  in  azure,  like  a  tear 
Fallen  in  the  veil  of  evening,  silver  pure, 
One  star! 

VII 

'T  is  said  that  hearts  are  won,  at  length ! 
The  glory  is  when  hearts  are  lost. 
One  loves  once  with  a  single  strength, 
Or  idly,  cunningly  almost. 


VIII 

WE  learn  by  suffering  and  we  teach  by  pity. 


IX 

I  HEAR  a  river  thro*  the  valley  wander 
"Whose  water  runs,  the  song  alone  remaining. 
A  rainbow  stands  and  summer  passes  under. 


[297] 


NAY,  take  it  all  in  all,  the  human  sort 
As  well  were  sleeping  as  awake;  they  use 
Their  small  facility  of  common  things, 
Assume  the  habit  of  their  errors,  and 
Believe  their  eyes  and  ears,  like  animals. 


XI 

THE  passions  that  we  fought  with  and  subdued 
Never  quite  die.    In  some  maimed  serpent's  coil 
They  lurk,  ready  to  spring  and  vindicate 
That  power  was  once  our  torture  and  our  lord. 


XII 

As  one  who  loving  beyond  words  will  bring 
The  hue  and  perfumes  of  a  common  rose 
And  trust  a  meadow's  language  to  disclose 
The  true  simplicity  of  offering; 
Then,  as  he  mutely  gives  his  little,  spring 
Obscure  slow  tears  that  she  who  studies  knows, 
Till  in  some  deeper  knowledge  both  repose 
And  the  old  flower  is  now  a  useless  thing. 
So  . 


[298] 
XIII 


TEASED  by  the  burden  of  this  little  sky, 
Struggled  and  breaking  thro*  the  azure  dome 
Emerged,  and  looked  upon  the  world  of  God. 


XIV 

IF  with  my  life  I  lifted  from  thy  head 
Ever  so  little  a  while  thy  crown  of  thorn, 
And  thou  not  sadly  in  thy  hair  hast  worn 
These  daisies  of  my  trembling  spirit  bred; 
If,  while  I  huddled  back  thy  dreadful  dead, 
Thou  'st  happier  listened  to  the  birds  at  morn, 
I  render  sacred  thanks  to  have  been  born, 
O  my  Madonna,  dear  and  hallowed. 
'T  is  in  my  soul  like  midnight  and  high  tide  . 


XV 

THE  immortal  mixes  with  mortality. 

The  stars  are  drossed  with  sod,  and  yonder  moon 

Which  loved  too  long  the  dead  Endymion, 

As  any  tiger-lily's  petal,  now 

Drops  away,  down  the  purple  airs  of  night.  — 


[299] 

I  do  remember  greater  worlds  than  these, 

An  earth  less  arrogant,  and  higher  hills. 

Then  rattled  thunders  from  a  thousand  points; 

Night,  suns,  morning  and  wind;  the  criss-cross  wings 

Of  eagles  in  delirious  passage  cast 

Small  shadows  on  the  tempest-hunted  cloud. 

And  there  were  noises  from  untravelled  shores. 

Now  nature  fills  with  waning.    One  by  one 

Monster  and  centaur  die,  and  weakening 

The  lungs  of  Typhon  lift  a  feeble  smoke 

From  horny-mantled  craters  by  the  sea. 

Alas!  and  we!  indeed  we  somehow  pass 

Within  a  fatal  evening  of  ourselves. 

I  feel  a  time-like  tremor  in  my  limbs. 

I  know  my  beauty,  and  I  understand 

Pleasure,  to-morrow,  yesterday,  and  love.  — 

0  had  I  one  like  him  to  gladden  me. 
Yet  would  I  be  alone,  for  in  my  breasts 

1  do  believe  the  milk  is  not  again. 


XVI 

FRAGMENT  OF  A  DRAMA  CALLED 
"THE  CARDINAL  PLAY" 


ANGELO.  You  're  paler  than  your  wont,  my  Lord.   I 

pray 
Your  sorrows,  for  the  church  — 

CARDINAL.  I  Ve  other  thoughts 

To-day,  my  son.    You  11  listen.    Are  we  heard  ? 

ANG.  Alone. 

CARD.  The  jeweller  Veri  had  in 's  care  — 

Pray  listen,  for  I  'm  tired  —  a  pretty  girl, 
Clean  of  our  dirty  age  and  marvellous 
In  beauty,  body,  soul  and  maidenhood. 
To-day's  a  week,  he  quit  his  workshop,  came 
To  bring  me  an  ordered  figure  silver-carved 
I  'd  need  of.   'T  was  some  hour,  I  'd  say  two  hours 
After  the  sunset.    And,  waiting  to  hear 
My  approval  of  the  long-belaboured  work, 
He  stayed  awhile.    But  wandering  home  he  found 
A  window  burst,  and  apprehending  some 
Great  loss  of  metals  and  I  know  not  what, 
He  rushed  within  —  all  safe  —  except  —  except 
Calling  Lucia  —  that 's  the  girl's  name  —  she 
Made  not  a  sound  of  answer.    Breaking  in 
He  finds  her  —  gone  —  robbed  —  O  my  son  —  I  say 
She  'd  flown  —  and  lay  the  bitter  question  —  where  ? 

ANG.  I  fear,  my  Lord  — 


[301] 

CAKD.  I  Ve  more  to  say.  He  came, 

Two  long  days  passed,  to  acquaint  me.   Me  he  sought 
For  being  professed  protector  of  his  work 
And  knowing  the  noblemen  who  play  such  tricks 
Upon  the  —  on  peasant  women  —  or  I  'd  say 
On  those  below  them.    You,  my  son,  are  young 
And  pass  your  youth  among  them.    Here 's  my  word : 
You  '11  find  what  villain  —  casually  you  '11  search 
And  ask,  as  speaking  of  indifferent  things  — 
You'll  find  me  out  this  man,  avenge  me — 

ANG.  Venge  you,  my  Lord  ? 

CARD.  Me,  yes,  as  shielding  Veri. 

ANG.  My  wits  are  dull,  your  pardon.    Truth  to  say, 
I  had  not  thought  to  pay  a  jeweller's  bills, 
And  hold  all  Roman  maidenheads  in  trust. 
Upon  my  word. 

CARD.  My  son,  it  suits  you  ill 

To  refuse  me. 

ANG.  Your  Grace  be  kind!   Howe'er 

You  '11  grant  it 's  odd  for  Roman  gentlemen 
To  fight  a  tradesman's  duels. 

CARD.  I've  said  my  wish. 

Be  pleased,  consider  all  your  life  is  mine, 
Your  state  and  rank,  your  fortune  — 

ANG.  Sir,  enough! 

The  story 's  this :   one  happy  day  you  found 
A  woman  —  noble,  fair,  we  '11  say,  who  liked  — 
I  speak  with  reverence  —  you  and  all  you  were. 
So  things  begin.    The  season  comes,  the  day,  — 


[302] 

Your  youth  is  happy  and  she  divinely  dower'd 

With  all  one  loves  one  great  rich  single  time. 

I'm  brief:  the  lady  was  my  mother,  you 

My  father,  and  God's  obscured  will  was  done. 

We  grow,  we  beings  of  your  happiness, 

Goaded  to  life,  and  clothed  and  dressed  and  wrapped 

In  the  disease  of  long  mortality. 

We  breathe  and  grow:  the  cruel  frequency 

Of  year  and  hour  is  on  us,  and  we  learn 

Our  birth  was  precious  —  but,  well,  casual. 

Yet  we  live  on,  and  on  necessity's 

Stern  heart  lay  our  ununderstanding  heads. 

And  we  live  on.    Then  comes  a  day,  you've  thought 

At  such  time  such  a  thing  should  so  be  done,  — 

If  not,  you  hound  us  out.    Now,  hear  me  God, 

It 's  passing  strange.    A  slave  is  fairly  bought 

And  cudgelled  if  the  bargain 's  bad,  —  so  far 

So  good.    But  I,  not  bought,  but  wholly  made 

Out  of  your  pleasure,  fact  and  monument 

Of  your  caprice,  a  thing  you  hazarded 

On  the  big  gaming  table  of  the  world, 

And  now,  —  why  after  all,  say  you,  it 's  mine, 

And  let  it  work  to  please  me.  —  My  respect, 

Your  Eminence,  dies  poisoned  by  the  truth. 

For  this,  despoil  me  as  you  will,  my  sword 

Is  mine,  my  honour's  mine,  and  mine  my  life. 

I  '11  fight  no  jeweller's  fight,  that 's  flat,  nor  earn 

A  busy  quarrel-monger's  name.    I've  said. 

CARD.  You  press  me  hard,  for  one  who  long  was  kind, 


[  303  ] 

And  made  your  livelihood  as  best 
Fortune  and  fame  would  warrant  —  yet  of  that 
Enough. 

[Coldly.]    I  came  to  order  and  I  sue: 
Your  sword  is  my  defence.    Hear  me  again, 
My  son,  for  I  had  interest  in  — 
ANG.  Interest? 

CARD.  I  say,  the  girl  — 

ANG.  You  loved  the  girl  ? 

CARD.  She  was  my  — 
ANG.  What  ? 

CARD.  My  —  ward. 

ANG.  Ward,  loved  your  ward! 

Christ  and  the  Saints,  how  hideous! 

[He  laughs  fiercely  and  long  and  sinks  into  a 
chair.] 

I  had  thought 

A  scarlet  Cardinal  with  silver  hair 
Had  made  his  peace  with  lust  — 

CARD.  Villain,  be  still 

Or  I  '11  tear  out  thy  tongue.   She  was  —  Ah  God  — 
She  was  my  daughter. 

[A  long  pause.  ANGELO  passes  his  hand  over 
his  forehead  and  seems  stupefied  and  shakes 
his  head.] 

ANG.  Wait  —  no  —  I  cannot  —  what  you  said  — 
You  spoke  — 

CARD.  Well,  sir,  — 

ANG.  [frantic].  No,  no,  I'll  not  believe 't. 


[304] 

No,  God  Almighty's  curse,  no,  no.    I  swear  it 's  false. 
I  say,  no.    It 's  to  spur  me  finely  on, 
To  move  my  stubborn  temper.    But  the  lie  's 
Too  thick,  too  simple. 

CARD,  [calling].  Luigi! 

ANG.  Why,  it's  plain 

The  thing  could  never  be,  —  the  beasts  abhor  — 
Oh,  loathsome  ghost,  away! 

[LUIGI   and   FEASCATI   enter.     ANGELO  still  mumbles 
away.] 

CARD,  [trembling  with  suppressed  anger]. 

The  tender  fool 
Will  not  believe  she  is  my  daughter  — 

[FRASCATI  shudders.] 

LUIGI.  Good  sir,  be  calm;  as  I  am  old  and  sad 
She  is  your  sister. 

ANG.  [cries  wildly].  Ah !  Ah !  Aches  of  the  damned, 
Flames  of  the  ugly  place,  tremendous  pain 
And  everlasting  anguish,  take  my  soul. 
Old  man,  thou  art  a  fool  —  she  is  my  heart, 
My  life.    I  robbed  her,  kissed  her,  loved  her,  I  — 
And  planned  eternal  peace  upon  her  breast, 
And  wove  her  garments  of  mine  ecstasies 
And  made  her  girdle  of  mine  arms.    I  say 
We  drank  one  only  cup,  and  eat  together,  — 
We  made  a  world  —  and  —  and  —   Ah,  both  you  lie, 
And  came  to  cheat  my  single  happiness, 

[LUCIA  comes  in.] 
My  only  years  in  all  this  dreary  light  — 


[305] 

Where  youth  was  not  youth,  life  not  life  —  till  now 

When  like  a  broken  bird  within  her  hand 

I  lay,  she  giving  me  back  melody, 

And  turning  nightingale  she  too  with  me 

Rose  thro'  the  violet  night  singing,  singing, 

Over  the  moon-beloved  and  perfumed  fields. 

[He  turns  to  LUIGI,  with  a  broken  voice.] 
You  are  too  old  to  stab  me  with  a  lie  — 
[With  terrible  anxiety.]     Tell  me,  kind  old  Luigi — tell 

me,  now; 

You  see,  I  'm  wretched  as  a  worm  half  crushed  — 
Be  true  —  For  God's  sake,  speak  the  truth  .  .  . 

[LUIGI  turns  away  in  tears.] 
Well  then,  it  is  1 

Angel  of  Destiny,  I  felt  thy  feathers  pass 
Upon  my  brow  and  heard  thy  clapping  wing 
Longer  ago  than  memory  or  life. 
Take  me  away.  [He  stabs  himself.] 

Lucia,  where  art  thou  ?    [He  dies.] 
[1897] 


[306] 


SHORTER     FRAGMENTS     FROM     "THE 

CARDINAL    PLAY" 


ANGELO 

I  WOULD  I  had  thee  like  a  drop  of  dew 
That  falls  from  heaven  without  history. 

ii 

FR ASC ATI 

Oh,  mine  Angelo, 

These  things  creep  out  by  every  finger  tip; 
A  footprint  tells  the  tale.    And  women's  love 
Is  noisy  with  perpetual  echo;  for  they  cry 
In  upper  chambers  whence  the  filtering  sound 
Grows  tell-tale  to  the  world;  and  next  they  write 
Love-letters  that  go  most  directly  wrong. 

in 

ANGELO 

We  spend  a  playful  youth  to  find  at  last 
A  woman  saviour  of  ourselves.    I've  found. 
And  in  my  iron  arms  the  surge  can  beat 
Importunate  and  long.    I  shall  not  yield. 
I  loved  her  as  in  play:   I  love  her  now 
With  the  great  steady  need  of  all  a  soul. 


[307] 

IV 
LUCIA 

[Singing  at  her  window] 
Ask  me  my  all  with  a  look  of  thine  eyes. 
A  blush  replies, 
Yes. 

Heart  and  whatever  soever  be  mine, 
Not  less 
Is  thine. 

Thou  art  sunflooded  and  infinite  sky 
And  I 

A  little  star  lost  far  away 
Down  the  day. 

[Singing  as  she  descends] 
Thou  art  the  branches  unwindily  stirred, 
I,  a  bird 

Who  tire  from  seas  of  the  west 
To  thy  breast. 

v 

LUCIA 

A  parting,  now! 

To  part !  why,  yes.    But  what 's  in  parting  ?  what 
In  such  small  separation  as  we  plan 
To  fit  our  chances  ?  what  Js  in  leaving  ?   Time. 


[308] 

And  Time  is  long,  and  longer  Time  is  Pain, 
And  Pain  is  death.    O  let  us  wholly  die 
Who  lived  too  wildly  — 

ANGELO 

So  said  I,  Lucia, 

Were't  not  that  one  may  roundly  crawl  about 
The  moving  camps  of  Destiny,  and  build 
Behind  her  passage  fortresses  of  peace 
To  harbour  life  in. 


[309] 

XVII 
"DRAMATIC  FRAGMENTS" 

[1904] 


I  USED  to  think 

The  mind  essential  in  the  body,  even 

As  stood  the  body  essential  in  the  mind: 

Two  inseparable  things,  by  nature  equal 

And  similar,  and  in  creation's  song 

Halving  the  total  scale:  it  is  not  so. 

Unlike  and  cross  like  driftwood  sticks  they  come 

Churned  in  the  giddy  trough:  a  chunk  of  pine, 

A  slab  of  rosewood:  mangled  each  on  each 

With  knocks  and  friction,  or  in  deadly  pain 

Sheathing  each  other's  splinters:  till  at  last 

Without  all  stuff  or  shape  they  're  jetted  up 

Where  in  the  bluish  moisture  rot  whate'er 

Was  vomited  in  horror  from  the  sea. 


[  310  ] 
ii 

BLINDNESS    AND    DEAFNESS 

[Enter  x,  who  learns  the  dispute  and  says] 

You  waste  good  time. 
More  philosophic  much  it  were  to  ask 
By  speculation  or  experiment 
What  midget  skims  the  void  of  that  man 
Who  being  all  these  together:  deaf,  dumb,  blind, 
Yet  must  within  himself,  as,  sepulchred 
'Mid  rings  of  brazen  crenellation  down 
Under  tremendous  towers,  the  heart  of  Cain, 
Be  alive. 


in 

THE    SOUL    OF    TIME 

TIME'S  a  circumference 
Whereof  the  segment  of  our  station  seems 
A  long  straight  line  from  nothing  into  naught. 
Therefore  we  say  "  progress,"  "  infinity  "  — 
Dull  words  whose  object 
Hangs  in  the  air  of  error  and  delights 
Our  boyish  minds  ahunt  for  butterflies. 
For  aspiration  studies  not  the  sky 
But  looks  for  stars;  the  victories  of  faith 


[311] 

Are  soldiered  none  the  less  with  certainties, 
And  all  the  multitudinous  armies  decked 
With  banners  blown  ahead  and  flute  before 
March  not  to  the  desert  or  th'  Elysian  fields, 
But  in  the  track  of  some  discovery, 
The  grip  and  cognizance  of  something  true, 
Which  won  resolves  a  better  distribution 
Between  the  dreaming  mind  and  real  truth. 

I  cannot  understand  you. 

'Tis  because 

You  lean  over  my  meaning's  edge  and  feel 
A  dizziness  of  the  things  I  have  not  said. 


IV 

BE  patient,  very  patient;  for  the  skies 
Within  my  human  soul  now  sunset-flushed 
Break  desperate  magic  on  the  world  I  knew, 
And  in  the  crimson  evening  flying  down 
Bell-sounds  and  birds  of  ancient  ecstasy 
Most  wonderfully  carol  one  time  more. 


[312] 


Sir,  say  no  more. 

Within  me  't  is  as  if 

The  green  and  climbing  eyesight  of  a  cat 

Crawled  near  my  mind's  poor  birds. 


14  DAY  USE  jfc 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED^ 

LOAN  DEPT. 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

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Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


2Apr'638S 


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NOV  0  3  1979 


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General  Library 

University  of  California 

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